


An Unexpected Guest

by Katarra



Series: Hannibal "Henry" Lecter IX [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (brief) Dynamic Sexism, Abigail Hobbs Lives, Alpha Will, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Child violence, Dark Will Graham, Denailing, Domestic Fluff, Family Bonding, Family Bonding through Torture, Family Feels, Gen, Implied Mpreg, Kid Fic, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Family, Omega Hannibal Lecter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Mpreg, Serial Killer Children, Torture, Violent Children, featuring important childhood milestones, hannigram child POV, like your first murder, omega-ism?, some bruises come with the territory, to be fair the child is a unrepentant killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-03-05 14:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 132,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13389462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katarra/pseuds/Katarra
Summary: Ten-year-old Henry Lecter’s sitter just bailed, leaving him alone to watch over his younger siblings. And that would have been fine, had a man from the FBI not chosen that precise moment to show up at their door.a.k.a.a/b/o AU, where Will and Hannibal got a little too close in Naka-Chono, resulting in a surprise pregnancy. Rather than having the bloody canon break-up, they took their new family, including Abigail, and skipped off to Europe for their happily ever after. Enter Jack, tracking them down almost eleven years later in the quaint Italian countryside, with only young Henry there to protect the family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [what_about_the_fish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/what_about_the_fish), and [feministdemigoddess](https://feministdemigoddess.tumblr.com) with a healthy dose of encouragement from [dawntreader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dawntreader/pseuds/dawntreader). It takes a village, people. Additional thanks to [what_about_the_fish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/what_about_the_fish) for the cover art!
> 
> Also, if you’re checking and double-checking the tags, you have indeed found a non-smut a/b/o fic. Rated Mature for violence. Lots of violence. (And cannibalism.)

Henry Lecter knew his day was going to be terrible the instant their babysitter tried to put bacon on his little brother’s plate at breakfast. The subsequent conniption fit made his ears ring for what felt like hours, and it was only after he’d spent the rest of the morning out in the backyard, rolling around in the grass with his dog, that things started to feel like they were going to be okay.

And then Mrs. Demetto’s phone rang.

He’d just come inside and was still lingering near the back door when the sitter partially collapsed against the kitchen island, eyes wide and scent going sharp with fear. She clutched at the golden cross that always hung around her neck, knuckles going white.

Henry tuned out the frantic, whispered demands she made into the phone and moved silently behind her to the fridge, tugging the neatly written note his father had placed there out from under its—anatomically correct—heart-shaped magnet. It was slipped into a nearby drawer just before Mrs. Demetto ended her conversation, shakily placing the phone down onto the countertop.

Before she even opened her mouth, he knew she was leaving. He’d honestly not paid much attention to the excuses she gave. Gestures and the cadence of her panicked babbling were enough for him to know something terrible had happened, and that it required her immediate attention. Whatever it was, it was clearly more important to her than the three children that had been entrusted into her care for the last two days.

It was a bit of a blur after that, the sitter flying around the house to get her things together and making a seemingly endless number of frazzled phone calls. Henry had seen enough and retreated outside to sit on the back porch steps, where the air was blissfully clear. At some point, Mrs. Demetto poked her withered head out the door and barked a question at him. Henry shrugged in answer, idly tugging at slightly damp blades of grass until she huffed in frustration and slammed the door.

The door opened again a few minutes later, and Henry reluctantly looked up to give the woman his attention.

“I’ve left several messages with your sister. Your fathers said she should be finished with her exams by this afternoon, yes? So you just have to sit tight until then,” the sitter said as her trembling hands wrapped her scarf ‘round and ‘round her neck, until it looked like she was just a head sitting atop a mound of poorly knit fabric. She walked closer, stooping over to look Henry in the eyes, and placed her weathered, bony fingers on his shoulders. “You remember how to dial for the police?”

He nodded, trying not to squirm under her too-hard grasp. The tips of her nails were digging into the meat of his shoulder.

“Good, good,” Mrs. Demetto said. She straightened and took a shaky breath, eyes not leaving Henry’s for several long, uncomfortable seconds. Finally, she blinked, hesitation melting away, and went back inside, Henry reluctantly following behind her. After one final sweep of the house to make sure Luca and Anna were still napping, she stomped out the front door without another word, leaving Henry to watch from the window as she hastily pulled away. He was fairly certain she didn’t even put on her seat-belt.

With a sigh, Henry did his own inspection of the house, checking the locks for all the doors and windows, wondering what in the world he was supposed to do now, besides cross his fingers and hope his siblings continued to sleep until Abigail had time to look at her phone. Maybe he _should_ have just let the sitter call his fathers. Sure, it would have meant a second funeral for her family—because those big, messy tears could have meant little else—but at least then he wouldn’t be mired in indecision now.

_No,_ he thought. _At least give her a day._ Henry didn’t hold any great affection for the woman, but she’d watched him and his siblings for years now during Papa’s heats, whenever Abigail hadn’t been available due to school. Today was the first time her judgment and dependability were in question. It would be the only time.

Without realizing it, Henry had nearly walked all the way back to the kitchen, his feet having come to a different conclusion than his mind. Thankfully, he’d noticed and stopped himself upon entering the dining room, and found a much needed distraction sleeping soundly under the table. Cephy was sprawled out on the hardwood floor, her curly, auburn fur matching so well it would almost be hard to notice her if she didn’t snore so loud. Henry crouched next to the table and gently lifted one of Cephy’s long ears draped haphazardly over her face. He flapped it slightly. No response.

Maybe Cephy had the right idea. Napping away the rest of the morning certainly had its appeal, and Henry was just about to crawl under the table with her when a sharp knock surprised the dog and him both. And while she only twitched upright to stare gloomily toward the foyer, Henry jerked upright and cracked his head against the edge of the table.

As he inched out from under the table and wobbly stood, Henry realized that biting his tongue to keep from swearing was not a sustainable tactic, and that Abigail gave terrible advice. At least there was no blood.

A louder, more forceful ternary of knocks followed, spurring Henry to rush into the kitchen and out to the hall, skittering to a stop before their grand front door. He cautiously approached the entrance, and laying his palms flat on the door, stretched onto the top of his toes to get a peek through the small glass window at who was waiting on the other side. Through a thick slab of wood, it wasn’t possible to determine if the man was an alpha or not, but his size certainly seemed to suggest it. All Henry could actually see was a broad frame covered in a thick, woolly coat and a dark skinned chin.

The man knocked again, even louder, and Henry was convinced that if he waited any longer, the stranger was going to burst the door down. At some point in her frantic dash to leave, the sitter had probably reminded him to _never_ open the door for a stranger, especially not an alpha. He knew he’d heard the same from his sister and fathers, had seen sensationalist stories about what happened when you open your door to the wrong person but… that man was coming into their home no matter what Henry chose to do.

Fortifying himself with one long, deep breath, Henry unlocked the door and opened it only wide enough for his body to completely fill in the space it created.

Henry squared his shoulders and craned his neck up at the strange alpha, because now it's glaringly obvious that’s what he was. The man had a square, boxy everything, from his torso to his head, standing on their front porch practically radiating with assumed superiority. He was staring rather harshly down at Henry, mouth twisted in displeasure and something else? Tilting his head, Henry tried to figure out what it was. Confusion, maybe? The alpha shook his head, eyebrows pinched and—ah, that was it. He was worried. Had he seen the sitter leave? Was that why he was worried? Henry was sure he didn’t know him, he was very good with faces, so maybe he was a friend of his fathers.

Realizing he and the man had just been staring at each other in silence, Henry cleared his throat loudly—something he’d seen his Papa do before during awkward encounters—and asked with as much polite indignation he could muster in Italian, “Can I help you, sir?”

His voice seemed to shake the man out of whatever alarmed stupor he’d fallen into. “Do you speak English? Are your parents home?” he quietly growled out. Henry could only assume he was trying not to sound too aggressive. Aside from his Dad, all alphas sounded aggressive to him. Even the sitter.

It was tempting to lie, to continue speaking in Italian until the alpha got irritated and left, but his demeanor, the American accent… It troubled him. The man carried himself like an _actual_ figure of authority. Like police.

“No, they are not. Our sitter just left. Family emergency. My sister should be here soon,” Henry replied, his words slow and halting. He had no idea if his falsely accented English was convincing, but he certainly hoped so. He breathed deeply in through his nose, out through barely parted lips. He kept his heart rate as steady as he was able and the muscles of his arm gripping the doorframe relaxed. Lessons from his fathers played quietly in the back of his mind.

“Where are your parents? Where’s your sister?” The alpha narrowed his eyes at Henry, casting a glance around the front of the house, like he’d spot them lurking in the bushes. Their home was situated at the end of a long, private road, deep in the Italian countryside. They were about a ten-minute drive from the nearest little town and an hour from Florence, where his fathers were currently sequestered away for Papa’s heat.

“Out,” Henry said, narrowing his eyes in return. He had the feeling it did not look quite so effective coming from a ten-year-old boy. “And my sister is just finishing the last of her exams for the semester. She’ll be done soon and coming home.”

The words were out of his mouth, smooth and fluent, before Henry realized he’d forgotten the ruse seconds after starting it. If at all possible, the alpha’s glower intensified further, and he leaned slightly into the ajar door, placing a thick hand on the wood.

_Crap, crap, crap!_ Henry tried not to cringe, both at his mistake and at _internal_ cursing. The idea had crept into his head some time ago that Papa could hear all of his swears, those shouted at the other end of the house, whispered in his room, and thought inside his own mind.

“What happened to your accent?”

Clearing his throat again, Henry shrugged as innocently as he was able, which wasn’t very. “It comes and goes,” was his terrible excuse. Not wanting to give the man any room to dwell on his suspicions, Henry tried asking as many things as he could think of, as quickly as he could, to find the magic question to move things along and make him _leave._ “Was there something you needed, sir? Do you need to use a phone? Are you lost? Did your car break down? I can call you a tow, if you don’t speak Italian.”

“What? No-” The man dragged his other hand down his face, heaving a weary, put-upon sigh, like it was _his_ house being assailed by a strange foreigner. Henry tamped down the urge to huff or tap his foot. “Okay, kid. Can I show you a couple of photos? Can you let me know if you’ve seen these men?”

“Why? Who are you?”

Another sigh. Henry suspected the alpha was used to being treated with more deference, as befit his dynamic. Unfortunately for him, Henry’s Papa would have a fit if any of his children automatically rolled over for any alpha’s demands without a good reason, no matter who they were or what they wanted. Much to Dad’s annoyance, he was not excluded from that.

There was something else about the way the man carried himself, though, that had Henry concerned, and in a way, he was entirely expecting what followed. It made holding back his instinctual recoil when the man flipped open his badge that much easier. “Special Agent Jack Crawford,” he said, holding the ID closer for Henry’s pointless inspection. “My team has been getting reports that a pair of suspects we’ve been looking for have been spotted in the area. Would you mind taking a look?”

After Agent Crawford stuffed the badge back into the depths of his coat, Henry caught a brief glance of his shoulder holster. He gave an excessive shrug, nearly smacking himself in the ear. “Sure,” he croaked and quickly cleared his throat.

From another secret pocket, the agent produced two photos and held them low, fanning them out in front of Henry’s face.

He suddenly felt light headed and sincerely hoped he hadn’t paled too obviously. The urge that overcame Henry to snatch the photos out of the agent’s hands was dizzying in its intensity. Henry had to dig his nails into the door hard enough that he worried he was going to leave gouges just to keep his hands where they were.

It honestly hurt, not allowing himself to reach out and take them, to cradle them to his chest and never let them go. There was no shortage of photos in the house of him, of Abigail and Luca and Anna.

There were none of his fathers.

“Do you recognize either of these men, son?” Agent Crawford asked after a moment. Had he looked up, Henry assumed he’d see the man watching his reaction very carefully.

The bored, almost dull expression on Henry’s face was easy to summon as he glanced up; all he had to do was recall—with more detail than he’d even realized he had retained—his last European history lesson. “Nah,” he said.

The dismissive tone was, perhaps, a bit ruder than his Papa would have approved of.

“Are you sure?” the agent pressed. He shook the photos at him, like that would jog Henry’s memory better.

Nevertheless, he dutifully looked down again, taking a moment to marvel at his Dad’s picture in particular. There was something so terribly lonely about his eyes, Henry thought. It seemed like he could scarcely tolerate looking at the camera to have his photo taken. Based on the shabby jacket he was wearing, Henry assumed this was a faculty photo, from his time as a teacher before his fathers had met. He’d never specified where. The years had aged him, of course, but he looked so much more alive now than he did in that picture.

Papa, on the other hand, looked much the same. His hair was shorter, parted neatly. Lately, he’d begun to let it grow out a bit, hanging in an ashy fringe around his eyes and ears. Henry suspected it was because Dad had gotten into the habit of regularly brushing the hair back from Papa’s face for him.

“No, I’m sorry,” Henry said, rather proud that, outwardly, he still appeared calm and uninterested.

“All right, that’s fine, son,” he said and tucked the photos back into their hidden pocket. Henry felt a pang of loss, wanting to look at those younger versions of his parents, just a little bit longer. “So your sitter left you here all alone, did she?”

Henry shrugged, toeing at the weather stripping of the doorway with his shoe. “More or less.”

At the agent’s raised brow, Henry considered whether there was any benefit to lying to him about this. On the one hand, it felt unwise to reveal the existence of his little brother and sister. If this interaction turned ugly and Henry was incapacitated, they were defenseless. On the other hand, though, if they woke soon, cried or otherwise made themselves known, he didn’t know how the alpha would react to being misled.

Making a quick decision, Henry steeled himself and said, “She left _us_ alone. Me, my brother, and my sister.”

“I thought your-”

“My _younger_ sister. She’s a baby.” Henry glared at the agent now and pulled the door more firmly against his side, like he could be an effective barrier between the man and his vulnerable siblings inside. “She and my little brother are sleeping right now.”

“Oh,” the agent said in a sort of gentle whisper, eyes wide as he leaned back to peer along the side of the house. “I’m sorry, I had no idea. I didn’t even know any kids lived here, to be honest.”

Henry said nothing, just waited and carefully watched the alpha for any sudden movements, poised to slam the door at the first sight of trouble. He was sure he’d be able to find a weapon faster than the door could be kicked in.

“Listen,” the man said after a moment, crouching down in a squat so that he was looking up at Henry instead of down. The movement was as baffling as it was patronizing. Was this to make him appear non-threatening? Henry darted his eyes away and tried not to laugh.

“I wasn’t planning on staying,” the agent continued, tone soft and just the right amount of reluctant. “But I can’t in good conscience leave three little kids all by themselves for who knows how long. It was very irresponsible for your sitter to leave, no matter what had happened. How about I stay until your sister gets home. She’s an adult, right? You said she was in school?”

Henry bit his lip and rocked back on his heels. This was… not ideal. “Yeah,” he finally sighed. “She’s at university. But you don’t have to stay.”

“Son, you said your other sister is a baby? What if something happened to her? Do you have any idea how to care for a baby?”

Henry wanted to growl at the man to stop calling him _son,_ that he was _more_ than capable of caring for both Luca and Anna, but instead he bit his tongue. Literally. This time he tasted blood.

“My name isn’t _son,"_ he hissed, swallowing hard first and hoping his mouth didn’t shine with red.

Agent Crawford chuckled and smiled good-naturedly, which only irritated Henry more. “Oh, I apologize. Not asking was a bit rude of me. I’m Jack. What’s your name?”

To be fair, not offering it in the first place was probably even more rude, but he certainly wouldn’t admit that. “Henry.”

The agent stuck his large hand out. “It’s nice to meet you, Henry.”

Because it was the polite thing to do, Henry took his hand, which completely engulfed his own, and shook it, even though his instincts were screaming at him to just slam the door shut and be done with it all. “Hi,” he mumbled.

“So, Henry, I can’t leave three kids by themselves like this, not legally, and definitely not morally. Either I stay and watch over you guys until your sister gets home or I take you all back with me to the local station, and we can wait there. Which would you rather do?”

Henry tried to imagine Abigail attempting to pick them up at a _police_ _station_ and momentarily forgot how to breathe. If this alpha was looking for his fathers, would he know about Abigail? Henry didn’t know everything about her past, the specifics of how she joined their family were not talked about, but he knew she used a fake identity to attend school. It was probably no safer for her to draw the attention of authorities than it was for their parents.

“I’m not even supposed to open the door when my parents aren’t home,” Henry argued, his voice laden with shame and worry. “If I let you in, I’ll be in so much trouble.” His bottom lip even _trembled;_ Henry was quite proud of that.

“Hey, hey,” the agent soothed, reaching up to place a hand on Henry’s shoulder. It was heavy; he had to resist sinking under the pressure of it. “I’ll explain everything, Henry. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“You promise?” Henry asked, absolutely hating how childish he sounded.

“Of course son—Henry. I promise.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Henry nodded and made an attempt at a sniffle, immediate annoyed when it didn’t work. He was sure he’d been working himself up to real tears that time. Henry shook his head, giving up on the crying angle, and took a step back to open the door wide. “All right then. Won’t you please come in, Agent Crawford?”

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, okay. A little nervous to be posting, because this is my first fic ever, but I'm really excited to see what everyone thinks. The entire fic is finished as a rough draft already, and is quite long, just letting you know! Unless something changes, the posting schedule will be every Friday and Tuesday. 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack makes himself comfortable and meets another member of the family. Absolutely no catastrophic mistakes are made. Nope. 
> 
> [Featuring this fic's one and only POV change.]

“Thank you, Henry,” Jack said with a smile, taking off his hat as he crossed the home’s threshold. The chill from outside had crept in over the long minutes the boy, Henry, had kept the door open. Once inside, Jack looked around and for a moment, could easily have imagined Will and Lecter living there. He was standing in a long hall, brightly lit from large windows with sleek, dark hardwood floors. The archway closest to him showed a peek of the kitchen, gleaming with chrome appliances and polished marble countertops. A few feet away from him was a small, antique table, well cared for but clearly suffering from occupying the same home as children; Jack could see crayon markings on most of its legs. He took a step closer, ostensibly to look at the large, framed photo that sat upon it, but also to cast a quick glance at the neat stack of mail he’d spotted, sitting next to an empty key dish.

The bills and letters were addressed to the Jacobs family, an Adrian and Patrick, sometimes a Barbara, who Jack assumed would be the older sister. He could feel the boy’s eyes on him and picked the frame up quickly, only to realize the photo’s sole subject was a dog, staring lovingly at something off camera. Giving the size of the animal, he guessed it was food.

“Cute dog,” he said with a nod of his head before placing the picture down. He cast one last look down the hall toward the staircase and several more doorways bracketed by expensive looking paintings. Altogether, the place was not nearly as ostentatious as Lecter’s place in Baltimore had been—or the _castle_ in France—but it was certainly several leagues more opulent than the barely constrained squalor that Will had insisted on subjecting himself to.

“She’s mine,” Henry replied quietly.

Jack turned to spy the boy standing stock still behind him, lingering near the door and awkwardly grasping his wrists behind his back. His posture was stiff, back straight, like he was trying to mimic the polite pose of a formal host.  The sight was unsettling; it reminded him too strongly of Dr. Lecter. Jack found himself scrutinizing Henry’s features more closely than he had bothered before, taking in his dark, curly hair, his mahogany eyes, the shape of his high cheekbones. If he squinted, the kid almost looked like he could be… but Jack shook his head. It was an absurd thought—Will and Lecter were both alphas. More importantly, they were _killers._ They had not hidden themselves away in the quaint, Italian countryside to raise a brood of kids in domestic bliss. Plus, now that he was inside, the scents of an alpha and omega pair were obvious. There was another, faint alpha scent lingering, which Jack assumed was the sitter he’d seen peeling away, along with the mild, neutral scent of several young children.

Henry seemed to have noticed the newfound intensity of Jack’s stare and fidgeted where he stood. The boy looked desperately around the foyer, like he’d find an answer in the delicate wallpaper as to what to do next. Suddenly, he jerked back to attention, spine straight as ever, and he looked to Jack like he had indeed found what he’d been looking for.

“I think this is where I offer you a drink,” he said with a wide, shaky grin that wavered between each word. Jumpy kid. “That’s what my fathers do, anyway.”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary.” Jack waved him off with the hand still holding his hat and Henry’s gaze zeroed in on it. His eyes darted to a hat rack near the door.

Henry waited until Jack walked over and politely hung up his hat and outer coat, although he partially regretted it. It was damned cold in the house, barely warmer than outside of it. “Are you sure? I know how,” Henry insisted, suddenly full of energy and bouncing up on the balls of his feet. “I pour my Dad’s whiskey for him all the time, when he’s tired.”

At Jack’s raised brow, Henry hastily added, “Not _all_ all the time, I mean. Every so often. And I’ve never snuck a sip! It smells really bad, anyway.”

Laughing, Jack held his hands up in defeat. He could admit a drink, just one, sounded appealing right about now. He was going to be here for a while, and one drink wasn’t going to have much of an effect on him. He tried to put the thoughts of yet _another_ lead drying up out of his mind. It’d been so long since there was so much of a whisper of a lead that it’d really felt like the time had come, that this would be the lucky break he needed. Still, Jack had been appropriately dubious of the tip at first, but the longer he stayed in the nearby towns, the more convinced he’d become. So many of the people he’d spoken to were adamant they had seen Will and Lecter before. Sometimes at a restaurant or the market. A handful had claimed to have seen them in more grandiose settings, like the orchestra and art galleries. That had really bolstered his hopes, knowing Lecter wouldn’t be able to resist the pull of high society.

Unfortunately, that hope died almost entirely at the word of a single, older beta, grandmotherly, with kind eyes and an adoring tone, who said after viewing the pictures that the two men were “such a beautiful couple.” That hadn’t been surprising; everything they found in France—what little there was—supported that idea, as much as Jack hadn’t wanted to consider it. When she then followed up with a lengthy, sigh-filled speech about how she’d never seen a better matched alpha and omega pair, Jack was left with a crushing pall of doubt, snuffing out any optimism he’d managed to rally.

With a sigh, Jack followed Henry down the hall into a formal parlor. He spared a quick glance to his surroundings, taking in a few more classical styled paintings, a large, grated fireplace, and several plush, luxurious seating arrangements. Henry directed him to sit in a particularly stately-looking wingback chair more or less in the center of the room as the boy dug around in the cabinets of a wet bar against the far wall. Jack sank into the chair with a relieved groan, suddenly quite grateful the Jacobs’ weren’t inclined to skimp on comfort.

Behind him, Jack could hear the tink of a glass being set out and then, a moment later, liquid being poured. Soon after, Henry appeared before him, a hand primly tucked behind his back, and proudly held out a glass with two fingers of whiskey. Jack nodded his thanks and took it from him.

Taking a polite sip, Jack’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the quality. “Thanks, kid,” he said, settling against the soft backrest. At least this was turning out to be a far more relaxing failure than he’d dealt with before. His worst fears had been a repeat of France, of _knowing_ he’d had them pegged, but arriving only a heartbeat too late. For weeks after, he would dream over and over again of getting to the villa just a few minutes earlier, catching them as they loaded the last of their packed bags. Sometimes the dreams ended in triumphant arrests, sometimes death—his, theirs, or both.

Henry had retreated a few steps to perch on the edge of the overstuffed couch across from Jack, one of his knees bouncing with the same nervous energy he’d been giving off for a while now.

“It’s going to be fine, Henry,” Jack tried to soothe. He leaned forward a little after taking another, satisfied sip of his drink. He hoped the kid hadn’t used his Dad’s good stuff, although it tasted like he probably had. “Your fathers aren’t going to get mad at you. If anything, they’ll be angry at that sitter of yours, leaving you kids alone like that. I know I sure as hell would be.”

“It wasn’t her fault.”

“What happened, anyway? Did she tell you?”

Henry gave a half-hearted shrug. “Maybe. I wasn’t really listening.”

Jack laughed and finished off most of his glass. He’s in the middle of debating on whether he wanted to ask after the whiskey’s brand—knowing it’s going to end up being ungodly expensive—when his fingers went strangely numb. He suddenly couldn’t hold onto the glass anymore, and it tumbled from his hand and onto the carpet, rolling against his foot. Without his input, his arm fell, limp against his side, and his chin drooped, fixing his gaze onto the floor in front of him.  

“Wow, that works fast,” he heard Henry say, his voice breathless and a little awed and far closer than Jack remembered the kid being. There was a pause, then a tsk in irritation. “You spilled on the carpet.” The boy walked closer, his feet finally coming into Jack’s view, and smoothly scooped the glass up. He roughly nudged one of Jack’s feet and moved it over an inch or two, an action Jack could vaguely see but not feel. “There. Now hopefully Papa won’t notice.”

Jack couldn’t move his body. Only his eyes, and even then, just barely. He watched as Henry stalked around him, slow and his gait alarmingly like that of a predator, muttering quietly to himself. Somewhere behind him, the glass landed with a dull thud back on the wet bar. Desperation starting to claw on the edge of his consciousness, Jack tried to call for help, straining with all his might to yell as loud as he could. He barely managed a low moan instead.

“Stop that. You’re only going to make yourself tired. This stuff lasts for hours, assuming I used enough.” Henry appeared in front of him again, hands on his hips and head cocked slightly to the side. The expression in his eyes felt strange to Jack, alien and detached. Like Jack was merely a curious specimen. “Hopefully I didn’t use too much,” the boy added as an afterthought, vague concern crossing his features like Jack dying on him would be more inconvenient than tragic. Jack could feel bile start to rise up his throat and tried not to panic at the thought of choking to death on his own vomit, since he could nothing to stop or control it.

He’d managed to slightly swallow, keeping his morning coffee down, when he heard soft, quiet footsteps coming from the hall.

“Henry?” came a small child’s voice, thick with sleep.

Jack strained his eyes as far as he could, trying to peer at the tiny form that had wandered into the very edge of his peripheral vision. He knew it was pointless, but he felt compelled to try anyway, to ask for help. It came out as barely audible grunts.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be sleeping,” Henry said softly, crossing over to the figure. Jack assumed it was the little brother. “Go back to bed, Luca.”

“I heard something. Is Daddy home?”

“No, he’s still out with Papa. They’ll be back soon. Come on, let’s go-”

Luca pushed past the arm Henry was using to block his view of Jack—or maybe Jack’s view of Luca—and suddenly demanded, “Who’s that?”

“That,” Henry said with a sigh, turning to rest his hands on his little brother’s shoulders. “Is the FBI. A cop.”

Luca’s eyes went wide, and he looked up at Henry in alarm. Jack could hear the quiver weaving its way through the little boy’s voice. “Is he here to hurt us?”

Jack bristled, outraged at the suggestion he would _ever_ want to harm an innocent child. At the same time, he felt like his gut was dropping out from under him. Who but those hunted by authorities would teach their children to fear them? The idea was as terrifying as it was absurd—but _had_ Will and Lecter… what, stolen children to raise as their own? Used _surrogates_ while evading the FBI? It was the only thing that remotely made sense, yet Jack didn’t want to believe it. It was a greater comfort to think he had just accidentally stumbled upon the home of an entirely different, dangerous mated pair of criminals.

Henry wrapped a steadying arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders, holding him close. “No, Luca, look at him. He can’t move, see?” He practically frogmarched Luca a little closer, and Jack finally got a better look at the younger child. His hair was significantly lighter and not as curly, face rounder with eyes that were a deep, dark blue, like looking into a bottomless abyss. He didn’t quite share Henry’s intense, knowing gaze—which startled Jack, that he hadn’t noticed it until now—as Luca’s eyes were wide and glossy, the air around him acrid with fear.

To prove his point, Henry kicked out at one of Jack’s legs, the one _not_ covering a whiskey stain, drawing a small grunt in response out of Jack, whose already rapid heart rate picked up speed at the reminder that he could not _feel_ that.

“I put some stuff in his drink. A para…” Henry paused, tapping his fingers on Luca’s small shoulders. “A paralytic. It means he can’t move at all, not until it wears off, and by the time it does, Dad and Papa will be home. Abi too.”

 _Abi_ ? Jack thought numbly. _Was that the sister? No, that had to be Barbara, right?_ It couldn’t be who’d sprung up in his mind. She was dead. She was dead, but… she had also been an omega. Maybe that was what he’d been missing, from the very beginning.

This news also seemed to take Luca by surprise, who turned around and leaned on Henry excitedly, grasping at his arms. “Abi’s coming home? When, when, when!”

“I don’t know. As soon as she checks her phone, I guess.”

When Luca began to enthusiastically stomp and hop up and down in place, Henry rolled his eyes. “It’s not going to be for a few hours, Luca. Why don’t you finish your nap? When you wake-”

“No nap!”

“Luca-”

 _“No nap!”_ The little boy’s voice had remained low in volume but was growing increasingly high in pitch, and Jack couldn’t even cover his ears. That was almost as bad as the slow certainty creeping over him that he wasn’t leaving this country—this house, this _room_ —alive.

“All right, okay,” Henry started to say, but before he had even finished, Luca darted away from him and attempted to climb onto the couch. After several failed starts, Henry gave an exasperated sigh before dutifully moving over to his brother and hoisting him to sit properly on the seat.

“Thank you, Henry,” Luca said. Something about his voice sounded odd to Jack. He thought perhaps the kid had a speech impediment, but he enunciated all his other words without much difficulty.

Henry sat on the cushion next to his brother, still on the very edge, body tense and primed for movement like the next runner in a relay race. He alternated between looking at Jack with wary suspicion and at his brother, who was idly kicking his feet as they dangled far above the ground.

“Listen, Luca,” he said, having seemingly come to a decision. “Can I trust you with a very important task?”

Eyes widening, Luca nodded a little too quickly to have it look dignified, his chin nearly smacking into his chest in his enthusiasm.

“I don’t want to, but I need to go get some rope. That means I have to leave our guest alone. Can you watch him? I’m only going as far as the supply closet. If he moves _at all_ , I want you to yell for me as loud as you can, got it?”

“But-”

Henry put a hand on Luca’s shoulder, fixed him with a stern look. “I know it might wake Anna, but it’s important, Lucky. Even if he only twitches his _nose_ , you yell for me, okay? _Okay?”_

At his brother’s hesitant nod, Henry relaxed a little. “Good. I’ll run back right away if I hear you. I’ll be right back.”

With that, Henry stood and dashed out of the sitting room and into the hall, leaving Jack alone with Luca’s focused, blue stare glued firmly on him.

Either to test fate, or in the futile hope that perhaps Henry got the dose wrong, Jack tried his damnedest to move, to do _something, anything,_ even wiggle his toes inside of his shoes. The persistent feeling of numbness was starting to get to him, made him want to claw off his own skin just for some kind of sensation. The discomfort he felt tripled upon the sudden, unpleasant realization that the numbness had even spread to his tongue.

“What’s your name?” Luca asked him, head tilted as he continued swinging his legs. The gesture from _him_ was at least more reminiscent of a curious puppy than something menacing. Jack could vaguely hear a door being opened some yards away and then muted rummaging. “What’s your favorite color?” Luca didn’t seem bothered by Jack’s inability to answer. “Do you have any pets? A dog? A cat? Do you like ducks? There’s a lot of them that live in our pond. Do you like figs? What’s it like being a cop? Do you have a gun? Can I see it?”

“Luca,” came Henry’s voice from the archway, a bundle of rope in his arms. “He can’t talk right now.”

Luca shrugged, sporting a big, gap-toothed grin. “I know! But he’ll be able to talk _later_ , and then he can tell me.”

“Because he’s totally going to remember all those questions,” Henry muttered. He walked over to Jack and eyed him, seemingly checking to make sure he really hadn’t moved in the boy’s absence. Satisfied with what he found, Henry dropped the rope in Jack’s lap and kept walking, heading through the house in a different direction.

“He’s gonna!” Luca yelled at his brother’s back, indignant like only a preschooler could be. He shrugged off his irritation with nothing more than a huff under his breath and started addressing Jack again. “Have you ever met a horse? How come you’re at our house? Are you looking for our Daddy and Papa? Were you gonna try and arrest them? How did Henry get you to take the para-stuff?”

Jack let the questions wash over him, one after another in a tedious, high-pitched barrage. It was only with the last question that Jack had a terrible realization.

The reason the way Luca said Henry sounded strange to him was because he wasn’t saying _Henry_ at all.

He was saying _Hanni_.

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got impatient and decided to upload a few hours early. The rest of the fic will be entirely from Henry's POV - the only reason this chapter deviates from that is because this was how I pictured the Jack-getting-drugged scene when the idea for the fic first came to me. 
> 
> Enormous thanks again to my betas, [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [what_about_the_fish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/what_about_the_fish), and [feministdemigoddess](https://feministdemigoddess.tumblr.com).
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry earns his Murder Scouts badges in Victim Restraint and Responsible Weapon Handling.

Henry tried to remember his breathing exercises as he lightly jogged—not ran—to the kitchen. He passed Cephy, who had relocated from under the dining room table to _on top of it,_ and had to come to a sudden halt. Papa would burst a blood vessel if he saw that. Probably several.

“Get down!” Henry hissed at her, wondering how she even got _up there._ In response, she barely sat up, the tilt of her head dangling one floppy ear to barely a whisper above the polished wood. “Down!” He tried some arm motions this time, kindly demonstrating for the dumb Cocker Spaniel where she should go. Cephy blinked her big, doe-like eyes at him—one at a time—before laying down with a huff.

Inhaling deeply, because _this_ being what broke him today was unacceptable, Henry marched over to his dog and scooped her up into his arms. He stumbled slightly, because Cephy was old, uncooperative, and perhaps a bit fat. No one would admit to feeding her treats, of course, but Henry knew Papa gave her scraps while he cooked and both Dad and Luca fed her unwanted bits of their meals under the table. Which, now that Henry thought about it, was probably why she’d taken to lurking in the room in the first place.

After depositing Cephy with a plop onto the floor—and a stern warning to _stay,_ not that she’d listen—Henry continued into the kitchen and went straight for the drawer he needed. Twisting the knob for the catch-all drawer, which was full of loose batteries, a few pairs of scissors, sharpies, a bottle cap that had lost its bottle, and who knew what else, Henry pulled out the secret drawer hidden underneath it. This one was smaller, tucked into the unused space above. Inside _this_ drawer were a few more useful items: knives of various sizes and uses, garrotes, some ominous little bottles, packaged needles (ostensibly for the bottles), and numerous types of restraints. In particular, Henry grabbed a few of the thick zip-ties.

Making sure to close the concealed drawer properly, Henry darted back through the dining room—Cephy was nowhere to be seen now, of course—and returned to where Luca was _still_ asking Agent Crawford questions.

It wasn’t worth it to tell him to stop, so Henry just got to work instead. The alpha hadn’t moved an inch since Henry had left, much to his relief, although he was now regarding Henry with a newfound sense of horror, it seemed. Henry wasn’t sure why it’d taken the man this long to realize what a dire predicament he was in. Wasn’t the FBI supposed to be clever?

Nevertheless, he was still unsure as to how long the paralytic was going last, so he dropped onto the floor in front of the agent and set about his task. Because Henry had no idea what his parents were going to want to do with the man, he decided to go with a _layered_ approach to binding him to the chair. First, his ankles were zip-tied to the chair’s legs—thankfully his foot was able to stay atop the whiskey stain. The restraints were probably tighter than they needed to be, but Agent Crawford wasn’t exactly going to be using his feet anytime soon. Loss of blood-flow wasn’t high on Henry’s list of concerns.

Next, Henry had planned on cuffing the alpha’s wrists together behind him, but the chair was wide and his large arms weren’t very flexible.

Letting one of the arms go to thud uselessly against the side of the chair, Henry stretched up on his tiptoes to shoot his brother a beseeching look over the agent’s shoulder. “Luca. Luca, come help me.”

“Why?” was all his brother said, loud and sudden, like a quack.

“Because I need a third arm to do this. Luca, please, come on.”

The four-year-old shrewdly eyed the situation, looking between Henry, their captive, and back again. “What if he starts moving?”

Swallowing down something Papa would disapprove of him saying, Henry reached around the chair and flicked the alpha on the nose. “He’s not gonna. Look.” Another flick. “Completely immobile.” The next one was directly to the eyeball.

“What?” Somehow, this question was even higher pitched than the last. Luca had wrinkled his little nose so far up his face, Henry was genuinely concerned it was going to slide off completely.

“Immobile means unable to move.” The tiny nose descended back down, his confusion abated. “C’mon, Lucky, I can’t do this without you.”

Heaving a heavy sigh—like Henry was asking him to _saw his arm off_ instead of just lending him a hand—Luca wiggled down off the couch and stomped over. “Okay, Hanni.”

Henry tried not to cringe at the nickname. Luca had been calling him Hanni in front of the alpha this whole time, which truthfully didn’t matter, since they had the man incapacitated. But it was a _rule_ that outside of the family, he was _Henry._ Not Hanni. Not Hannibal. At some point today, he was going to have to remind Luca how important their rules were. If he remembered, anyway.

Now that he was close, Henry directed Luca to grab hold of the agent’s right arm and tug it around to the back of the chair, where Henry was already holding the left.

“It’s heavy,” his brother whined, making quite the show of lifting the arm a few inches and then dropping it.

“I believe in you,” Henry deadpanned. He tried not to roll his eyes _too_ obviously, but Luca wasn’t looking at him anyway, instead furrowing his pale brows at his new nemesis: the adult male arm he was expected to lift, move, and hold in the air for maybe five seconds.

Henry wasn’t even being all that sarcastic, since he knew the little brat could deadlift _Cephy,_ who definitely weighed more than one of these arms. Given Henry had recently wrangled both—was _currently_ supporting one, as he waited—he considered himself a bit of an expert in the matter.

Now that he thought about it, that gave him an idea. “Pretend it’s Cephy.”

Luca looked down at the arm for a moment, then back up. “Cephy’s heavy.”

“I know. But you pick her up all the time, don’t you? Just pretend. Close your eyes and grab it, like you were trying to hug her.”

For a moment, Henry really wished he was standing in front of the chair instead of behind it, just to see Agent Crawford’s expression when Luca heaved his thick arm to his chest and clutched it tightly in his awkward grip. At Henry’s beckoning, Luca tottered closer to him, pulling and stretching the limb until it _just_ reached the other, close enough for Henry to secure them together with another zip-tie. Looking back at the way the agent’s shoulders were wrenched, Henry couldn’t imagine the man was going feeling very comfortable once the drugs wore off.

“All done?” Luca asked.

Henry rounded the chair and snatched up the rope where it had been momentarily forgotten on the agent’s legs. “Not yet, but that’s all I needed help with, thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” his brother squeaked before running back to the couch to watch. As Henry dumped the rope onto the floor next to him, he kind of dreaded what had to come next. He stepped closer—far closer than he’d like, because strange alphas smell _foul_ —bent down, and began patting along the agent’s sides, trying to find the pockets of his coat.

Luca had been left to struggle onto his seat on his own, but when Henry heard his brother’s triumphant squeal behind him, he threw a quick, “Good job, buddy,” over his shoulder. Luca beamed at him in response, showing off his considerable tooth gap. Papa fretted over it a little, worried Luca had inherited his crooked teeth, but Dad thought it was cute. Henry had agreed, up until the point Luca had learned to weaponize it into ear-piercing whistles some months back.

Turning back to their captive, Henry dug his fingers into a compartment of the alpha’s jacket and pulled out a badge. Without giving it another glance, Henry chucked it onto the floor and continued his search. After tossing a wallet and a cell phone down next, Henry carefully unholstered the agent’s gun. This he walked over to the wet bar and gently placed down.

He was already primed to address his brother when he heard Luca’s bright voice called out, “Is that his gun? Can I see it?”

Henry gave Luca the hardest look he could muster while pointing at the weapon and said, “No. Don’t touch this. I mean it, Luca. Dad would be very upset if he found out you touched a gun without permission. You can look at it later, after Abi unloads it. Okay?”

“You unload it!” was the petulant reply.

“That is so dumb!” Henry regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, especially when Luca’s face twisted up in offense immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“You’re not supposed to call me dumb,” Luca whined, sticking out his bottom lip and crossing his arms. On the one hand, Luca was completely right. The last time he’d yelled at Luca and told him he was stupid, Henry was plagued with nightmares for weeks. Dad had given him the expected lecture, a long talk about what kind of language was respectful to use, especially with someone he loved, and how words could wound in unexpected ways. Henry had nodded at all the right places, apologized a fifth time for the same offense, and returned to his day. It wasn’t until everyone else had gone to bed that Papa had taken him aside. Despite never having heard his father so much as shout in his entire life, Henry braced himself for some kind of intense scolding - _definitely_ some yelling - the entire walk to his Papa’s study. Except once they were there, Papa never even raised his voice. He was dreadfully quiet instead.

That was the night Henry first learned about his Aunt Mischa.

Some time later, Luca was not very appreciative of being woken up by a near suffocating, weepy hug from his big brother. Henry couldn’t remember what explanation he gave, only that it sounded like unintelligible babbling, interrupted with hiccups. Regardless of the odd wake-up call, Luca had wiped away Henry’s tears all the same and kissed him on the cheek, telling him not to cry.

On the _other_ hand… “I didn’t call you dumb,” Henry countered. “I called your _suggestion_ dumb. Neither of us are going to touch it until Abi gets home.”

“When?”

Henry shrugged and crossed back over to where Agent Crawford’s eyes were nearly bugging out of his head. He didn’t know what the agent was freaking out about now. The stuff about the gun? Henry was fairly certain his handling of that was textbook. Maybe not the unspoken promise that Luca _could_ check out the gun _after_ it was unloaded by a responsible adult, but it’s not like that would’ve been the first time he’d seen one. Some allowances had to be made in the Graham-Lecter household. It was probably not ideal that one of Henry’s first memories was of wielding a knife, but to be fair, he was only using it on a fish. At least, he thought it was fish. Memories can be a bit hazy.

Whatever Agent Crawford had in the back pockets of his pants could stay there, Henry decided. When his search of the man’s suit jacket yielded nothing further, Henry was momentarily confused. He knew for a fact that he’d seen… _Right!_ Turning to Luca, Henry said, “Watch him. I need to check his coat,” and left the room before waiting to hear his brother’s answer.

It was still hanging up on the rack by the door. Given how big it was, the coat was most likely stupidly heavy. He didn’t bother taking it down, instead opting to search it where it hung. It didn’t take long for Henry to find his remaining two prizes: the agent’s car keys and… the pictures. He knew—he didn’t have any delusions about it—that as soon as his fathers were home, the photos would be destroyed, probably chucked directly into the fireplace. They’d decided a long time ago that photographic evidence of their existence was too big of a risk, even going so far as to avoid certain streets and establishments that they knew had surveillance cameras.

Maybe someday Henry could convince his fathers to permit one, just one, family photo. Taken somewhere with no identifying landmarks of any kind. In just a handful of years, he was going to be an adult and out of the house like Abigail. He’d like to have something to remember his parents by when years, miles, or borders come to separate them—something tangible. Real. His fathers seemed the sort to slip away too easily from the mind like dreams, content to be baleful specters of one’s imagination than men made of flesh. Henry worried one day he’d forget the soft things, like his Dad’s quiet laughter or his Papa’s all engulfing hugs, that all he’d remember in the end was the blood, muffled screaming from the basement, and the scent of two very different meats being cooked each night for dinner.

Shaking the unexpectedly somber thoughts away, Henry took the photos back to the sitting room with him, dropping the keys onto his pile of found goods. Might as well share the bounty while it lasted.

“Look at what the agent had with him,” he said in a sing-song voice, waving the pictures in Luca’s direction.

“What’s that?”

“Come see.” Henry was grinning as Luca hopped off the couch and bound toward him, just shy of a full out sprint. He held the photos fanned out for Luca to inspect, like Agent Crawford had for him earlier.

“That’s Papa!” his brother yelled, almost instantly. He tried to grab for the photo, but Henry jerked it out of reach. He wiggled the second picture for emphasis to distract his brother from his pouting. “Is that Daddy?” he asked, eyes wide, near awestruck.

“It is.”

“He looks so sad. Hanni, why is Daddy sad?”

Henry tilted forward, peering at the picture of their Dad upside-down, or trying to, anyway. His hair ended up obscuring most of his vision. “The picture is old, Luca,” Henry said after some thought. “It’s from long before either of us were born. Maybe that’s why he’s sad. He’s alone.”

“What about Abi?”

Looking at Luca through the curtain of his brown hair, Henry gently reminded him, “Remember that talk you had with Dad and Papa a few months ago? When they told you Abi was adopted?” At the dull look he got in response, Henry held up a hand to stave off the question he could tell was coming, since Luca had apparently forgotten the conversation entirely. “It means she used to have different parents, but they’re gone. Now we’re her family.”

“Oh,” Luca said quietly. His face was pinched, like he was trying to process this new information. Again. Henry was sure he was going to ask a hundred questions, but in the end, Luca just shrugged and said, “Okay. Can we keep the pictures?”

Henry straightened and walked over to the couch, where he plopped down and ran an irritated hand through his hair, trying to get it out of his eyes. “No, I don’t think so. I think as soon as Dad and Papa get home, they’re going to destroy them.”

“But-”

“And it’s the right thing to do. You know it is. So let’s just look and appreciate them while we can, okay?”

Luca was unconvinced and marched in front of Henry like he was honestly going to start a fight about it, but it wasn’t through Henry that this battle would, or could, be won.

Placing the pictures down on the cushion next to him, Henry reached out his hand, offering a lift up for Luca, who probably didn’t want to struggle for a third time in an hour to haul himself up onto the seat. To Henry’s relief, Luca took the olive branch and allowed himself to be hoisted and deposited next to his brother.

“If you promise to be careful, you can hold them,” Henry said.

“Okay.”

“Do you _promise_?”

_“Yes .”_

After returning Luca’s glare with one of his own, Henry placed the pictures into Luca’s little hands, perhaps with more reverence than was _honestly_ warranted. They were just pictures, after all. Before leaving the couch, Henry ran a hand affectionately through Luca’s hair, messing up the sleep tousled locks even further, and only just managed to pull his hand away before Luca’s teeth snapped shut on the patch of air one of Henry’s fingers used to occupy. Luca growled at him, the manner of which Henry honestly couldn’t tell was playful. Instead of incurring further risk to any extremities, he hopped off his seat and strode over to the pile he had amassed at Agent Crawford’s feet, leaving Luca to pour over the glossy features of their parents.

The tasks never seemed to end, Henry realized as he knelt in front of the wingback chair. He supposed it was just a matter of breaking them down into steps, making what was more time sensitive his priority. Easier said than done, of course, and Henry had to pause to take a few steadying breaths, wait for his heartbeat to slow back to its normal rhythm. Panic was absolutely the last thing he could allow right now.

By his knee, Henry grabbed the agent’s phone, suddenly remembering the possibility for the man’s location to be tracked with it. He tried to remember exactly what he should be doing about that. In movies, they removed the SIM card, he thought. He turned the phone over in his hands, noting it was more or less just like his sister’s, finding the slot the card was tucked away in fairly easily. Over by the wet bar, Henry dug around in another whats-it drawer, this one even more haphazard than the one in the kitchen. After jabbing his fingers on an _extremely_ sharpened pencil recklessly left lying around, he unearthed a paperclip from beneath several assorted matchbooks.

With a sigh, he turned and leaned back, closing the drawer with his hip as he bent the clip into a more useful shape. It took no time at all to poke the end into the release for the SIM card and for it to pop out into his hand. He briefly wondered if he should… snap it? Stomp on it? In the end, he decided his fathers would know what to do, so he just dropped it next to the gun, along with the phone he had now powered off.

That finished, and the rest of the agent’s items not requiring his attention, Henry set about binding the alpha with the rope he’d collected. He couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him when his captive’s eyes landed on the rope as Henry uncoiled it slowly. It was interesting that the drugs seemed to be suppressing his hormonal responses, or else Agent Crawford had nerves of steel, to not be even the littlest bit frightened. Henry suspected that was not the case, though. Even if it wasn’t possible anymore for the alpha to widen his eyes in alarm, something changed in them as Henry approached. A shift in perception.

It was funny, Henry thought, as he tightly wrapped the rope around the alpha’s broad chest. Usually it wasn’t until he had a knife in his hand that someone looked at him like that.

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry's had a unique homeschooling experience.
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [what_about_the_fish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/what_about_the_fish), and [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry makes a disgusting sandwich, and Abigail finally checks her phone.

Henry was crouched behind the wingback, tying the strongest knots Dad had taught him over the years, when he heard Luca quietly say, “Hanni?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m hungry.”

He tugged on the ropes, testing their give and the strength of the knots. It seemed secure enough to him, but he still had a lot of rope to go through. Henry planned to use it all. There was a distinct possibility that the man could end up looking like a mummy, but his being secure—and Henry  _ feeling  _ secure that he was secure—was more important than aesthetics. Not a sentiment shared by Papa, probably. 

“Hanni!”

“I heard you, Luca, just give me a second.” Around the front of the chair, Henry gave one last tug on a few strands of rope. Satisfied there was no slack, for now, he turned to his brother. “Come on, then.” 

After carefully placing the pictures down, Luca was a bundle of over-eager excitement as he hopped down onto the floor and tried to rush past Henry, only to get caught by the collar of his footie pajamas. He scowled up in annoyance, some objection clearly brewing in his eyes, but the glare he received from Henry made him think better of voicing it. “No running,” he muttered instead, letting his head droop in resignation. 

“No running,” Henry parroted back and released him. “Not unless your life is in danger. And unless your stomach is about to  _ eat you-” _ this Henry punctuated with a tickling, clawed hand to Luca’s tummy, “then you’re safe for now.” 

“It  _ feels _ like it’s gonna!” Luca told him through his giggles.

“I guess we better do something about that,” Henry said as they entered the kitchen. There was still no sign of Cephy in this part of the house, so Henry could only assume she’d slunk off to nap on some other forbidden piece of furniture. Probably his fathers’ bed. 

Without waiting to watch Luca struggle, Henry picked his brother up and unceremoniously plopped him onto a barstool at the center island. That provoked a quiet squeak of indignation but no further complaint. Henry grabbed the closest dishtowel at hand—one of Papa’s more indulgent items of kitchen decor, embroidered with hellish imagery based on some poem—and draped it over his arm. Addressing his brother with a slight bow, he asked Luca in a posh, dramatic voice, “And what can I get for you today, Signore?” 

Luca hid his laughter and wide grin behind splayed fingers, eyes squeezed nearly shut. “I want peanut butter!” Luca finally managed to say. His voice was a little muffled behind his hands. 

“Just the jar, then?” 

“No!” The hands came away in a wild flail of exasperation. Henry resisted laughing, although Luca no doubt saw his shoulders shaking. “Sammich!” 

Henry sighed and returned the towel to its proper place. He leaned against the island’s countertop. “I’ll make you a peanut butter  _ sandwich _ if you ask nicely.” 

Luca slumped slightly on his stool. “Please?” At Henry’s unchanged expression, he amended, “Can I  _ please _ have it?” 

“Can I please have a…?” 

“Peanut butter sammich.” 

“Luca,” Henry said, tone as stern as he could make it. The baby talk was affected; they all knew it. Papa had made it clear that everyone in the family was supposed to discourage it—or ignore it—but Henry suspected that someone wasn’t listening to the directive. It certainly wasn’t  _ him _ . Maybe it was the sitter. What was another sin to lay at that woman’s feet? 

After an overly dramatic eye roll, Luca ground out every syllable slowly, like each was a fingernail being yanked off with pliers. “Can. I. Have. A. Peanut. Butter.  _ Sand. Wich. Please.”  _

Someday, Henry suspected Luca would try and smother him in his sleep, or perhaps he’d bar Henry’s bedroom door right after setting the curtains on fire. That day was probably not as far off as Henry would like. 

“Sure thing,” Henry replied, flashing Luca an effervescent smile that made his brother frown even harder. He busied himself with grabbing the necessary supplies, taking care to find the peanut butter Dad bought at the store in town, not the spread Papa made himself. It was one of a great many items in the fridge, freezer, and pantry that were expressly off limits. Once Henry had tried to make himself lunch and grabbed the restricted ham—by mistake, of course, he had assured his Dad, after the offending meat had been slapped off his plate. He’d then been sat down to a odd talk with his fathers, couched in insinuating and obfuscating language that left him a tad bewildered. The implication was that Henry and Luca  _ didn’t know _ about Papa’s dietary choices, which was almost insulting, honestly. Papa had never been particularly subtle about it. 

Also, Henry wasn’t blind. He could tell the difference between meats bought at the store and those he’d personally seen butchered. 

Henry was about to take the homemade apple and fig jam out of the fridge—this  _ was _ Dad approved, at least—when a shrill cry of “No!” halted his movements. 

“No?”

“Bananas!” 

“You want a banana, not a sandwich?” Henry was aware he was being a bit of a snit, but he didn’t care. If Luca was just going to screech demands at him, he deserved the snark. After putting the jam back, Henry turned and rested against the fridge’s chrome door, staring down at his brother. 

“Peanut butter  _ and _ banana. Please.” The last word was a bit grumbled, but it was good enough. 

With a shrug, Henry fetched a banana and set about assembling his brother’s lunch. He was halfway through cutting thin slices of the fruit when Luca piped up with  _ another _ request. “And pickles!” 

This gave him pause. They’ve had…  _ weirder _ meals, probably, but Luca made him naturally distrustful. “You want a pickle?” 

There was no answer until Henry peered over his shoulder to see his brother nodding with enthusiasm. With a sigh, because he had a feeling he knew the answer, he asked, “You want one on the side?” 

A laugh. “Nooooo!” 

“Luca, if I make you a peanut butter, banana, and  _ pickle _ sandwich, are you actually going to eat it? Or are you going to poke at it, tell me it smells funny, and force me to make you a  _ second _ sandwich?” 

“I’ll eat it!” Hastily, Luca added, “I swear!” 

Pointing the smeared butter knife at his brother with all the feigned malice he could, Henry narrowed his eyes and said, “You better.”

Luca just laughed. So much for Henry’s threatening demeanor. He needed to practice more. 

In the fridge, Henry located the large jar of thinly sliced pickles, hidden as far in the back as they could be. They were cheap and “pedestrian” according to Papa, but he’d developed a thoroughly hated craving for them with Anna and kept them around even after she’d been born. Henry could still recall how much he fussed about feeling trite. Dad, of course, thought it was hilarious, and didn’t tire of offering increasingly outlandish combinations for him to try. Papa would look outraged, green, or shamefully curious with each new suggestion. Sometimes all three simultaneously. 

Still dubious of Luca’s sincerity, Henry watched him with shrewd eyes as he slowly placed each pickle upon the sandwich. Luca didn’t flinch. If this was a ploy, he was committed, Henry had to give him that.

Nearly finished, Henry sliced off the crusts and cut it into four triangles as neatly as he could manage, given the slippery contents. He stuffed the discarded crusts as one whole wad into his mouth as he got out of the milk. 

Of course, Luca noticed right away when he took down a spill-proof cup instead of a more grown-up glass. 

“Hanni! I’m not a baby!” he began to protest, pouting and slapping his hands against the counter. Henry knew better than to point out how his actions suggested otherwise, so he just shrugged and continued to chew his glob of rejected bread.

“I’m going back to finish with Agent Crawford,” he mumbled around his snack, glad Papa wasn’t around to see. “I assumed you wanted to come back with me.” 

“I do!”

“Then you’re using this cup.” 

What followed could only be described as an ear-piercing shriek. Henry didn’t wince; it was painful but not quite unbearable. He supposed a circular saw was only a  _ little _ bit louder. 

“You done?” he asked once Luca had run out of breath a considerable time later. Clearly, Luca took their swimming lessons far more seriously than Henry ever had. He’d be impressed, if he wasn’t on the cusp of a sudden headache. 

Red faced, Luca started to shout, “I don’t wanna-” but was cut short by the house phone ringing, causing both boys to go very still. Henry felt Luca’s eyes return to him before he heard his voice say, at a much lower decibel, “Who is it?” 

Henry managed to maintain some semblance of calm between his spot at the counter and where the phone lay, in case he needed to convince his fathers or the sitter that everything was as it should be. 

However, when he saw the name  _ Abigail _ on the display, the tension he’d been feeling ever since their front door was knocked slowly drained away, and the calm he felt was now much more real.

On the fourth ring, Henry’s hand darted out to pick up the receiver. He answered with a small grin. “Abi.”

“Oh my god, Henry! Please tell me she didn’t seriously leave you guys on your own?” His sister sounded breathless, and Henry could hear the distant, rapid clack of her heels. “I just got out of class and had  _ six _ voicemails. Please, please tell me she’s still there!” 

“She’s gone,” he told her. 

“Oh my god.” The clacking sped up. “What was she  _ thinking _ ?” 

Henry shrugged but realized halfway through the motion that Abigail couldn’t see it. “I don’t know. She was in a rush. Everything’s okay, though. Anna’s still napping. I made Luca lunch.” 

Abi’s pace didn’t slow, but she said, “Okay, good. That’s good. I’m nearly to my car now. I’ll be there in about an hour. Just sit tight, okay Henry? Don’t open the door, don’t go outside. You think you can manage changing Anna if she wakes up before I get there?”

“Sure,” he said, only addressing her last question. Henry had seen both his younger siblings get changed enough times that he could… probably figure it out. 

A door was opened and slammed, noises from the phone briefly muffled as a buckle was clicked into place. “Okay, I’m leaving now. Please, stay inside. I’ll be there and—wait, you’ve called Dad and Papa, right? In one of her voicemails, the sitter said she didn’t have their number.” 

“No.” Henry kept his eyes firmly on the wall, resisting the urge to glance at the drawer where he’d hidden the note. Abigail wasn’t there to see if he gave himself away, but it felt like good practice to tamp down the urge anyway. 

The frantic rummaging that had been going on on the other end of the line stopped. Henry could imagine Abi slowly slowly narrowing in suspicion as she asked, “And why not?” 

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he lied. “Plus, they might not have even noticed. It wasn’t long before your exams were going to be over, so I didn’t think it was a big deal.” That part was true. 

“Henry,” Abigail hissed his name, like the quietest of curses. “They would have noticed. If they had to cut the trip early, they wouldn’t have been mad.”

Henry didn’t want to, but he laughed. 

“Not at  _ you _ _,”_ she corrected. After a moment, she said, “Well, now they probably will be. They’re going to be furious you didn’t call, Henry. They would’ve been able to be home by now. I’m not going to be there for another hour.” 

“But I told you, it’s all fine. There’s no need.” There was all the need, of course, but that didn’t feel like a conversation to have over the phone. Abigail was stressed out enough as it was—adding more could hamper her ability to drive safely. 

“Is Abi coming?” Luca finally asked, just loud enough to be overheard, unable to contain himself any longer.

Their sister’s voice softened instantly. “Is that my Luca?” 

Henry smiled and walked closer to his brother. “Yeah, he’s here. He was just about to have something to eat. Here, I’ll put you on speaker.” Right before doing so, however, Henry covered the mouthpiece tightly, bending over at the waist to look directly into Luca’s eyes. He spoke low, his voice a harsh whisper. “Don’t mention the man. Don’t talk about the pictures. If you do, Abi will get scared. You don’t want to scare Abi, do you?” 

Luca’s eyes went impossibly wide. He shook his head slowly. 

“Good. Just tell her how excited you are to see her. I’ll tell her everything when she gets here, okay?”

After receiving a solemn nod, Henry released his hand over the phone and turned on the speaker function. “There we go,” he said with a small, faked laugh. “Couldn’t find the button!” 

Seeing that it was  _ okay _ to talk now, Luca happily shrieked, “Abi!”

“Lucky!” Abi shouted back, almost as giddy but much quieter. “You doing okay, Lucky?” 

Luca beamed at the nickname, the way he always did with her. It felt like Abigail was the official name giver in the family, no matter what his parents  _ actually _ named them. Henry, of course, was named after Papa, next in line for a likely defunct title. He’d been told the story many, many times of how Abi had been under the impression he was Hannibal Lecter the eighth, rather than the ninth, and had started to jokingly call him Henry the Eighth in private. His fathers had overheard her on occasion but had assumed she had been calling him Hanni. The two sounded vaguely similar, especially as baby talk. 

For Henry’s first Christmas, she’d stitched him a baby blanket, embroidering it with his proper name. Or close to it, anyway. Abi had been embarrassed when she realized her mistake, but their fathers thought it was sweet. Dad had found the whole thing hilarious and started using the nickname himself, ensuring it stuck for good. Papa eventually caved after a few years, claiming it was because it was safer for Henry to go by a different name in public anyway. Hannibal was rather unique, after all. 

As far as Henry knew, that first blanket—Abigail had made a new one, later—was in his parents bedroom, folded neatly to display the embroidery. 

Luca’s nickname had a simpler origin. His fathers were blindsided by his conception, having gone under the assumption that Henry would be their one and only biological child. Papa’s heats, now that he didn’t suppress them, were sporadic and short, the time between growing longer and longer as the years passed. When Luca had been born, Abi had held him in her arms and cooed about what a lucky baby he was. 

Anna’s, however, started a bit differently. 

“It’s short for something, right?” she had asked, shortly after their sister was born.

“No,” Papa had told her. Henry remembered how tired he had looked, pale and sweating. Anna’s had not been an easy pregnancy, and for the last few months, Papa had been on self-imposed bed rest. 

“Well I think it’s short for something.” 

“It’s not.” 

“How about Anastasia?” That got another no. “Annmarie?” A shake of the head. “Angelica?” That wouldn’t have even shortened to Anna or Anne, but that didn’t stop Abigail. 

She spent the whole first twenty-four hours of Anna’s life suggesting all sorts of longer,  _ fancier _ names for their new sister to have. Henry’s favorite had been Anaconda, and his loud laughter after Abigail suggested it made Papa smile. 

Finally, after sitting hunched over in a chair at Papa’s bedside for so long, Henry was starting to worry she had fused with it, Abigail jumped to her feet. “I got it!” she had said, quiet because Papa was asleep. Scooping Anna up out of her bassinet next to the bed, she briefly touched noses with their newborn sister before turning to Henry. “Dad wouldn’t let Papa name Luca after him, right?” 

Henry nodded. He’d remembered that argument. 

“And he said no to Wilhelmina and Willa too?” 

Dad’s exact words, when Papa had floated the idea passed him, had been: “I want a divorce.”  

“Something like that,” Henry confirmed in a whisper. 

Abigail had grinned at him, rocking their sister in her arms. “Then if Dad won’t let any of you be his namesake, Papa will just have to have two. Hannibal Junior and Annabelle.” 

When he woke next, Papa was instantly enamored with the idea, although he did refuse to  _ legitimately _ name her that. His blessing for the nickname was good enough for Abigail, and Henry had tried not to be too disappointed that Anaconda hadn’t won out. 

While Henry had been thinking, he’d wandered back over to the counter, finishing what he’d come into the kitchen to do in the first place. He listened as Luca happily chittered away at Abigail, her cheery responses, and was relieved by the tone of the conversation that Luca hadn’t said anything incriminating while he hadn’t been paying attention. In fact, Abi sounded far less stressed. 

“You still with us, Henry?” she asked with a small laugh, like she could sense his returning focus. 

“Yeah, I’m here,” Henry called toward the phone as he put Luca’s sandwich quarters on his favorite, puppy-shaped plate, the one with one large partition bookended by two long, oval ones, and little indents for the eyes and nose. When he picked up Luca’s spill-proof cup, he turned to pointedly look at his brother, wiggling the cup in one hand, milk in the other. 

Perhaps using Luca’s adoration for their older sister was a bit mean on his part—knowing for a fact Luca never threw any of his more impressive tantrums where she could see or hear. But upon seeing his brother’s shoulders slump in defeat and his slight nod of agreement, all Henry felt was sweet, sweet triumph.

“I’m gonna take Abi off speaker so you can eat now, okay Luca?” Henry said, placing the plate and cup in front of him. 

“Actually, god I don’t know what I was thinking, I should head off. You guys have been all by yourself for long enough as it is.” Henry heard her car start, its engine a strong purr he could hear even over the phone. Dad had argued against getting her something so luxurious when she was accepted into medical school; Papa was insistent that she had a high quality, reliable vehicle for the long drives between campus and home. It was hard to argue with that reasoning, Henry figured, even if there was a world’s difference between a reliable car and the sleek beast Abi drove. 

“Lucky, be good for Henry, okay?” she was saying now.

“I will! Bye Abi!” Luca garbled back in response, mouth, surprisingly, already full of sandwich. He was actually eating it.

“Bye Lucky!” she cheered back. More subdued, she added, “See you soon, Henry.” 

“Goodbye.” Henry hung up the phone and returned it to its cradle. He chucked the knives he used to make Luca’s food into the dishwasher and turned to his brother. “Ready to head back? I’ll carry your stuff for you.” 

Luca nodded and went to slide off the barstool, only to have Henry intervene and lower him gently. Luca’s small, slippered feet had just barely touched the smooth, stone floor when a loud grunting could be heard two rooms over. 

Henry straightened and focused his hearing. When the grunting started to resemble a deep, rumbling voice, Henry sucked in a breath, a hand unconsciously flying to Luca’s shoulder. 

The drugs had begun to wear off.  

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four-year-olds are gross, man.
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [what_about_the_fish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/what_about_the_fish), and [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry has a nice chat with his guest. Jack goes through a bit of emotional whiplash.

Breathing in slowly, Henry concentrated on the feeling of Luca under his hand, the warmth of his shoulder and its subtle rise and fall. He took a moment to focus on Luca’s still baby-like scent, although it was nearly overpowered by the peanut butter and pickle stench in the air. _God, that smelled gross._   

Another breath. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three, four.

“Hanni?”

Looking down at his brother, Henry summoned a smile. “Sounds like our guest is regaining some feeling.”

“Is he gonna get loose?”

“No, no I don’t think so,” Henry said. “But let’s get back, and I can make sure, okay?”

Luca gave a determined nod and picked up his cup from the counter, clutching it tightly. Henry grabbed the plate with one hand, the other secured on Luca, and shepherded him out of the kitchen.

As they crossed into the sitting room, Henry could feel Luca start to turn, to look at the strange, bound alpha in their home, but Henry tightened his grip on his brother and kept him moving forward. He didn’t have time for Luca’s rubbernecking right now.

After heaving Luca onto the couch’s cushions and making sure the plate and cup were in easy reach, Henry heard Agent Crawford trying to say something behind him. As he wasn’t able to articulate anything beyond grunts just yet, Henry ignored him in favor of gently picking up the two photos.

Luca opened his sticky mouth to object, but Henry beat him to it. “After you’ve finished and washed up, you can have these back. You don’t want to get peanut butter on them, do you?”

There was a pause, while Luca debated his answer, before he shook his head. He dived back into his foul sandwich triangle, mouth smacking loudly with each bite.

Henry watched for a moment, appalled and impressed, before the grunts behind him finally took an intelligible shape. “Kid… Hey…” With a sigh, Henry walked over to the wet bar and placed the photos down, careful they didn’t touch anything else. It was apparently where all items of importance were going today.

He debated staying where he was, behind the alpha and out of his line of vision. The pull of looking into the man’s face was ultimately too great, however, so Henry slowly rounded the chair to face him, slightly off to the side so as not to obstruct Luca’s view. Henry cracked a smirk when he realized the man’s gaze had tracked him every step of the way.

It seemed he couldn’t move much just yet; he wasn’t even straining against the ropes. All he had control of was his mouth, barely, and his eyes as they blinked with dazed confusion in Henry’s general direction. So far, Henry couldn’t smell any alarm or fear coming off of the agent, but it was possible it was still being dulled by the drugs.

“You don’t… you don’t have to do this,” the man said slowly. He gasped every few words, like he was being pulled under by a current and struggling for breath. “Untie me. I can help you.”

Henry couldn’t help it: he laughed. He had to hold back laughing harder when Agent Crawford flinched slightly at the sound.

Without any further response, Henry approached the chair and toyed with another length of rope, passing a critical eye over the work he’d done so far. He decided the legs needing more binding and kneeled in front of the large chair. The slight twitch Agent Crawford’s leg gave at his touch was concerning, but since Henry had already tied down the bulk of his body rather solidly, he tried not to let it worry him too much.

Versatility seemed the wisest course of action, so Henry first tied one leg to the chair, then the other, then both together. Again, he reached back as far into his memory as he could to draw on various knots he’d been taught over the course of his education. He tried not to use the same one over and over, in case it had a weakness that could be exploited or he wasn’t as skilled at it as he assumed.

Satisfied with his progress, he sat back on his heels and looked up into the alpha’s wide eyes. “Please, son,” he said, “Don’t do this.” Henry noted with displeasure how expressive the man’s face was able to be now. He definitely had not used the right dosage.

“Don’t do what?” Henry asked, returning to his work. He pulled the rope extra taught, digging it into the flesh of the agent’s legs.

“You’re better than this,” he said, which was an odd thing to be told by a stranger.

Henry leaned back again, head tilted. It felt silly to point this out, but he did anyway. “You don’t know me.”

In the minutes that had passed as Henry used up the last of his rope, the alpha had really started to battle against his restraints, with little result. “I know enough,” he panted, sweat dripping down his face as he strained and pulled, held back both by rope and uncooperative muscles. “Your name is Hannibal.”

Henry shrugged, not impressed. “Good job, you figured out Hanni is short for Hannibal. Henry’s a nickname.”

“Where is Abigail?” the man demanded. “Where is your mother?”

Henry blinked. “My _what_?”

“I heard the boy. I heard him say Abi. Abigail is your mother, isn’t she? I know she’s an omega.”

Looking over his shoulder, Henry checked to make sure Luca was more absorbed in his food than paying any attention to the two of them. The only person Luca loved more than their sister was Papa; hearing such a ridiculous claim would only upset him. “She is,” Henry said. “She’s an omega, but that’s all. She’s our sister. We don’t have a mother.”

“No, no you’re lying. Or they lied to you. You have to be-”

“Have to be what? You’re not making any sense,” Henry said, cutting him off with a frustrated grumble. “I was there when my brother _and_ little sister were born. My Papa carried them, no one else. There’s no mother.”

“Who’s…” The alpha breathed deeply, as far as his restraints would allow, and licked his dry lips. “Who is your Papa?” he asked, a sort of dread in his voice that intrigued Henry greatly.

Over the last few years, Henry had watched as a great many frightened, hopeless men asked questions they did not want to know the answers to. And yet, some force other than self-preservation or common sense compelled them to ask anyway.   

“We have the same name,” Henry answered simply.

Agent Crawford’s eyes closed, and he tilted his head back against the chair, a strange look on his face. “Hannibal Lecter,” he said, voice quiet, sounding equal parts vindicated and confused.

“Did you not know that he was an omega?” Henry asked.

“No,” the man grunted.

While Henry had suspected as much, it was still a baffling thing to hear. He wasn’t sure why Papa would have concealed his dynamic before; as far as Henry knew, Papa had only ever lived openly as an omega. Maybe it had been more restrictive for omegas in the States. It would make sense for him to hide it then, if it inconvenienced him.

Intrigued by this new source of information on his fathers, Henry adjusted so that he was sitting properly at the man’s feet, like Agent Crawford was his kindly grandfather telling him stories. It was the probably closest he’d ever get to such a thing. Papa’s parents died a long time ago. Dad never spoke of his at all.

“So how _did_ Hannibal present, when you knew him?” Henry sensed that using more impersonal language in regards to his parents might help the agent open up a bit. He was right.

“Like an alpha,” Agent Crawford scoffed, his face still trained on the ceiling. “Had all of us fooled. I never… I never even considered it. That he was lying about _that_ too.”

It seemed much more difficult to fake being an alpha than a beta, Henry thought, although perhaps not for Papa. Even as an omega, he exuded a quiet sense of power, always poised and naturally commanding attention. On more than one occasion, when the whole family were out together, strangers would only give his parents a shallow, considering sniff before getting the dynamics of his fathers backwards. It was an understandable mistake, maybe, when Dad was carrying around one or two young children, Papa guiding him through crowds with a hand at the small of his back. Less so when Papa was _clearly_ pregnant. Dad had grumbled all the way home about the new and surprisingly depths of people’s stupidity after the first instance of that.

Henry couldn’t help but ask, “Why do you think he did that? Why not be a beta?”

“How the hell should I know?” the agent growled in response, finally fixing Henry with a steely eyed stare. He was starting to get more movement and flexibility in his neck. “Hannibal never settled for anything but the best. I’m not surprised, now that I know. He wouldn’t settle for being an omega.”

Henry kept his face from twisting up in displeasure at the word _settle_ and decided to drop the topic. Instead he remained quiet and passive, waiting to see if the man would continue to speak on his own. It was then Henry realized the second-most useful side effect of the drugs were beginning to wear off, and he could definitely sense the agitation rolling off the alpha now. It made him shift where he sat on the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest where he could wrap his arms around them. His limbs felt almost tingly, like they’d fallen asleep, but that was a sensation he was used to ignoring. So far, the response from the alpha was mild, too mild for Luca to notice and become uncomfortable or upset. He’d have to do something when that was no longer the case.

“Kid,” Agent Crawford said with a sigh, his large form deflating slightly against the ropes. The tingly feeling slowly eased away, and Henry looked up from where he’d begun to stare at the carpet. “How much do you know? I mean, I’m guessing you know your parents are in trouble with the law, since you _drugged_ me. But do you know… anything else? What have they told you?”

_Not enough,_ Henry thought with annoyance. He was trying not to be irritated about being in the dark about his fathers past, especially when they already trusted him with so much, but Henry couldn’t deny it hurt, a little, being face to face with a stranger who probably knew more about his fathers than he did, probably second only to Abigail. Dad would say Henry knew everything that mattered but… Henry sighed, leaning his cheek against his knee and looking up sideways at the agent. Dwelling on it was a waste of time.

If Agent Crawford was already aware of his father’s crimes, there was little point in lying. He likely won’t live to see the sunrise anyway.

“I know they kill people.”

The agent sucked in a harsh breath at the same moment Luca barked his name. “Hanni!” Henry turned and saw his brother staring at him in shock, mouth hanging open, still holding the last bite of his food. “Don’t say that kinda stuff, Hanni!”

“It’s okay, Lucky.” Henry twisted where he sat and faced him directly. “He’s not going anywhere. Abi will be here soon, then Dad and Papa. We’re not in any danger.”

“Are you sure?”

_Not really_. Henry shrugged. “He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t already know that. It’s fine, Lucky. Plus, how can we have a nice discussion if I lie? If I’m honest, he’s honest.” He turned back around and lazily grinned up at his captive. “Right?”

Agent Crawford didn’t answer him. Henry didn’t have time to be annoyed about it, because Luca asked during the quiet pause, “Does he have any more pictures?”

Henry felt a bit better that apparently he wasn’t the only one around here starved for images of their parents. “I don’t know. He might have stories, maybe.” The alpha was still ignoring him, lost to whatever horror his brain had conjured up at Henry’s blasé confession. He reached up so his hand was in the man’s line of vision and snapped twice. “You probably have stories about them, right?”

A shuddering breath before he replied, “Not any fit for children’s ears.”

“You’d be surprised.”  

The alpha shivered again, more revulsion than fear, and his mouth set a grim line. “They’re monsters.”

Behind him, Luca let out an indignant snarl, slightly muffled by his last mouthful of lunch. Henry resisted turning around to make sure he hadn’t spit a half-chewed pickle onto the carpet.

“And?” Henry asked, one brow raised. “That’s not news.”

Agent Crawford’s expression changed then, losing the tightness around his jaw, and his eyes took on a sorrowful quality. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If I’d known… maybe I would have found them sooner.”

Henry wanted the earlier discomfort to return. At least that feeling prompted the urge to _move,_ do something. All that the revoltingly earnest tone the agent was taking with him did was make him feel sick. Throwing up on the man’s shiny black shoes would almost be deserved, if it wouldn’t cause more problems than it solved.

“Known what?” Henry snapped. He glared at the agent’s tie, rather than look at him.

He said nothing. Henry risked a glance, and somehow his face had gotten _even worse._ Sympathetic. The implication hit Henry quite suddenly. “They wouldn’t—they’re my _fathers_. They love me; they love all of us. They haven’t… They’ve never hurt us, Agent Crawford. Never.”

The man’s face changed not one bit. If anything, he looked even more remorseful. He didn’t _believe him._

Henry swallowed hard and recrossed his arms for something to hold onto. He had the suspicion that trying to claw that look off the agent’s face wouldn’t do much in favor of Henry’s assertion. Not like his opinion on Henry’s family _mattered,_ anyway.

“So, anyway,” Henry said after clearing his throat and mind of impulsive actions, “nothing you say can shock me, really. I’ve seen them kill before.” He was still baffled by the insinuation his fathers would ever let any harm come to him, let alone by their _own_ hands. A barn cat once scratched Henry when he was little, when they still lived in France, and he was fairly certain it was only Dad’s intervention that kept Papa from mounting the thing’s head on a wall.

Of course, at this new statement, the agent’s mood soured. He looked a little green, even. “They’re sick, my god. After everything he’s done, that he would—” Henry quickly tuned out, not interested in listening to Agent Crawford go off like a blunderbuss about his parents moral depravity. As he looked distinctly ill, Henry scooched back a few feet on the floor, hoping he was well out of splatter range in case the agent worked himself up to being genuinely sick.

Despite Henry’s hopes, it didn’t seem like he was going to be getting any stories or information about his fathers’ lives in America. Maybe now, they would think it more prudent to fill Henry in on their history. If their past was going to be tracking them down all over the world, Henry should at least know what to look out for, shouldn’t he? And, he thought quite proudly, even as uninformed as he was, he still handled the threat all on his own. He was just as much of an asset as Abigail was, that proved it.

Leaning back on his hands, Henry sighed. The alpha had shifted from being sickened to angry again. It was still blunted by drugs, but Henry could tell they wouldn’t last much longer.

A funny idea crossed his mind then, and Henry took advantage of whatever remaining time was left for the alpha’s responses to be dulled.

“I’ve even helped,” Henry politely added.

Agent Crawford stilled. His jaw clicked audibly, mouth opening and then closing with a loud clack. “You’re joking.”

Henry shook his head, a grin slowly widening on his face. Whatever the man saw in Henry’s eyes at that moment—unbridled glee, perhaps—it turned him a peculiar shade of red. His struggle against his bounds renewed tenfold, breathing in great huffs like an enraged bull.

Henry heaved himself to his feet, sufficiently bored and needing to do something with his hands, and took up the very last of the rope he’d gathered. Agent Crawford didn’t cease his squirming but did dart his eyes to Henry’s hands. “What are you doing?”

“Forgive me for being over-cautious,” Henry said, tone not very apologetic. He decided the arms were too free for his liking. “But it’s very important you stay put until my sister and fathers get home. Then they’ll decide… what to do with you.”

“You mean they’ll decide how to kill me? If Will or Hannibal get their hands on me like this, I’m dead! Do you understand that, kid? Listen, hey, listen to me. If you let me go, I’m not going to hurt you. I swear. I’ll just… I’ll just leave. I can’t promise I won’t come back but… you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to be _like them!_ Son, please.”

Henry only blinked in response, awed at the truly abysmal begging. After finishing with a few additional bindings around the agent’s wrists and upper arms, Henry rounded the chair until he was facing his captive again. Slowly he leaned down, until they were eye to eye, hands on the chairs armrests. “I don’t have to be like them, no, you’re right,” he said. “I _want_ to be. And like all good children, I want to be _better.”_

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went through some extensive edits and gave me a heck of a time, but I'm happy with how it finally turned out. 
> 
> Jack pretty much looks like this by the time Henry's done with him:  
> 
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [what_about_the_fish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/what_about_the_fish), and [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's just a few things Henry has left to do before Abigail gets home. Henry also has a bit of a temper.

Agent Crawford was quiet throughout the rest of Henry’s fastidious rope tying. While Henry would like to claim it was due to fear, the reality was he’d gagged the agent after about two minutes. He could have tolerated being more-or-less lectured about his own supposed innocence. The assurances of his own goodness, of the kind of future  _ Agent Crawford _ thought he should have, were more amusing than anything. It was when he dared to speak Luca’s name that Henry snapped, shoving a wad of cloth napkins between the man’s teeth and securing it with duct tape.

He’d made sure not to use the  _ nice _ napkins. 

Luca didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, content on drinking his milk as he was. By the time Henry was done with the agent, Luca had finished his lunch and needed assistance putting the dishes away and washing his hands. Cleaned up, he had asked, quite nicely for him, if he could have the pictures back. 

Seeing no reason not let him, Henry plopped Luca back onto his claimed spot for the evening, photos in hand. It was no time at all before he was riveted onto their father’s faces and paid little attention to what Henry was doing. 

Which, once he turned from Luca, wasn’t much. The alpha was completely still, not even trying to wiggle free anymore, although Henry couldn’t tell if it was because he had managed to fasten him into motionless or the man had finally given up. That would be a shame, Henry thought. 

With almost half an hour before Abigail was due to be home, Henry paced the sitting room, trying to decide if he’d missed anything. The alpha had been searched and divested of his weapon. He was as tied down and secured as Henry could possibly be expected to accomplish, save for completely cocooning or re-drugging him. That was tempting, but Henry was also sure his fathers would prefer Agent Crawford was capable of answering their questions when they finally returned home. The agent’s phone was disabled, so there was no means of track- 

The car. Henry had forgotten about the car. 

In the pile of extraneous things he’d found, Henry grabbed the car keys and marched toward the entrance. “I’m going to check his car. Luca,  _ stay put!” _

“’Kay!” 

Just to be safe, Henry didn’t close the front door behind him. He’d rather the whole house freeze, so long as he was able to hear Luca should anything happen. 

Parked right out front on their circle driveway, Agent Crawford’s car was about what he expected. It looked like something cops used for stakeouts in movies. The windows were even tinted. 

After unlocking the door with the key fob, Henry pocketed the keys and slid into the driver’s seat. He rubbed his palms down the leather seat that was three times as wide as he was and decided that both Abigail’s and Papa’s cars were far more comfortable, but it was a significant improvement on Dad’s truck. It hadn’t been operational when Dad bought it, and even though he spent weeks replacing nearly every part of the engine, he never bothered with the interior, leaving the original, scratchy seat coverings in place. 

Henry drummed his fingers on the rental’s steering wheel, which he could just barely see over, and took a moment to think.  For lack of a clear starting point, Henry went with what was right in front of him. He bent and squeezed himself close to the dashboard, feeling along the underside of the console for anything that seemed out of place. He wasn’t  _ entirely _ sure what a tracking device would feel like, but he felt like he’d know once he found it. Nothing there, he checked under the front seats and footwells, and in the glovebox, inside of which was a thick folder, loosely tied closed with some twine. This he grabbed, tossing it out the open driver’s side door and onto the roof, before turning his attention to the back. 

Clambering over the middle console and between the front seats was more difficult than he’d anticipated; Henry fell with a hard thud onto the backseat when his foot slipped on leather. Thankfully, his landing did little to jostle the car’s contents, or else he would have found himself getting clubbed over the end by a shotgun, leaning perilously close to his crumpled self. Henry carefully nudged it sideways until its barrel clinked against the passenger window. 

The backseat’s cushions and floor yielded nothing of note. He left the shotgun alone entirely, unsure of how to unload it safely—or even how to check if it  _ was _ loaded. Instead, he made a mental note to tell Abigail about it. After he told her everything else, anyway. Henry was rapidly losing count of his mental notes. 

Interior clear, Henry went to leave out the passenger door, only to discover it locked. With a groan, he climbed back into the front, somehow managing not to kill himself in the process, and finally escaped the car. He did not slam the driver’s side door in annoyance behind him. 

Popping the trunk with a button on the key fob, all Henry found after a thorough search was the agent’s luggage, containing nothing of interest, and a few boxes of ammo, both shotgun shells and handgun rounds. He retrieved the folder from the car’s roof, tucking it under his arm, and hurried back inside the house, dutifully locking the door behind him. 

Back in the sitting room, he found his two charges precisely where he left them. “Everything good?” It all looked fine, but he had to ask anyway. Just to be sure. 

“What?” 

“He didn’t move or anything?” 

Luca tore his eyes away from the photo in his hand—he seemed to be just concentrating on their Dad now—and stared at Henry, his sandy brows furrowed. He peeked at Agent Crawford out of the corner of his eye, something Henry was sure was meant to be subtle. “No?” 

The folder left Henry’s hands and fell onto a side table with a loud plop. “You would have noticed. Okay. There’s nothing in the car but these,” he said, gesturing toward the paper pile that Luca barely acknowledged. “I’m going to check in on Annabelle.” 

“Don’t wake her!” 

Henry blinked at Luca, confused. “I wasn’t going to?” 

Luca placed the photo aside and crawled across the couch, sending a beseeching look at Henry over the side of the armrest. His voice was dreadfully serious for a four-year-old. “She’ll get scared.” 

Henry leaned against the archway between the sitting room and hall and crossed his arms. “She will?” At Luca’s solemn nod, Henry asked, “Why is that?” 

Luca mumbled something, mostly into the couch’s upholstery. 

“Lucky?” 

No answer, and now his brother was avoiding his gaze. Henry approached carefully until he was within arm’s reach and touched the top of Luca’s head. “Are you scared, Lucky?” At the silence, Henry crouched down, trying to catch his brother’s eyes. He didn’t make it easy. “You gotta tell me what’s wrong. How else can I fix it?” 

“You can’t,” Luca finally grumbled. He was peeking out between his arms, but not at Henry. “Not ‘til  _ he’s _ gone.” 

“Agent Crawford scares you?” 

“Only when he’s mad.”

Henry noticed it now, the low, prickling he could feel under his skin that came from a pissed off alpha, made all the worse for his unfamiliarity. He could barely imagine how uncomfortable Luca had to be feeling, now that the drugs had more or less worn off completely. 

Angling himself so that he was directly in front of Luca—and blocking his view of the agent—Henry said, trying to keep his voice soft, “You should have said something sooner. Until Abi’s home, you can head up to your room or the-”

“No!” Luca squeaked. “I wanna stay.” 

“Are you sure? It’s only going to get worse.” 

“I know,” Luca said, sighing as he pressed his cheek onto the couch’s armrest and looked up at Henry. “S’why Anna has to stay sleeping. I’m fine ‘cause you took care of him, and you said it’s okay. But Anna is just a baby.  _ I _ know he can’t hurt me, but Anna is just gonna smell a scary alpha and there’s no Daddy or Papa or Abi to keep her safe. She won’t know any better.” 

That was both a remarkably good point and quite possibly the most words Henry had ever heard Luca say at once that didn’t involve ducks. 

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be extra careful not to wake her, don’t worry.” 

Luca sat up and scrutinized Henry’s face for a solid ten seconds before nodding regally. “See that you don’t.” 

His brother’s spot on impression of their Papa startled a snort out of Henry, but he quickly masked it with an awkward cough, covering his mouth with his fist to hide a grin. Luca had not noticed the slip and was already settling in at his previous spot on the couch. 

Henry decided to move on before the image of Luca’s suddenly prim posture rendered him unable to do anything except roll around on the floor and howl with laughter. 

Before going upstairs, Henry had an idea and diverted into the kitchen to poke around in the hidden drawer there. He took out several of the small vials, reading their labels. The paralytic had already been in the sitting room, concealed amongst the bottles and glasses. Henry had, unfortunately, never seen it used before, thus his error, but a few of the bottles that he held in his hands had exact copies in the basement. 

He seemed to recall some of these having hypnotic qualities, a few affecting respiration, and most carrying the possibility of death at a high enough dosage. Thankfully, the guesswork was removed simply by selecting the most empty bottle. If Henry was right, that one would be a mild sedative that should also be an effective muzzle on Agent Crawford’s endocrine system. 

If he was wrong… oh well.

Henry wasted no time in filling a needle and marching back into the sitting room. He could see Luca watching him curiously as he located a spectacularly bulging vein in the alpha’s neck, who was not reacting well to Henry’s sudden proximity, needle in hand. He hollered behind the napkin in his mouth, shaking his head and trying to lean as far out of Henry’s reach as he could get. Which wasn’t far. 

Henry  _ could _ patiently explain to the man that his inability to regulate his emotional responses to appropriate levels around small children was not only irresponsible but discourteous and rude. He could tell him how this intervention was an unfortunate necessity, and, honestly, Henry would much rather not have to do it, but his hand was forced. 

But Henry said nothing at all and plunged the needle into Agent Crawford’s neck. 

He tried to jerk away from it, of course, but Henry held the man’s head still with his other hand, his thumb placed precariously close to the agent’s eye, pressing a little harder than was necessary onto the orbital bone.  

Finished, Henry stepped away and smiled, twirling the spent needle between his fingers. Already, the air felt much clearer, the uncomfortable feeling creeping along his limbs fading away. 

Pleased with himself, Henry was still grinning when he turned to his brother, who was blinking owlishly at him. 

“What was that?” 

“Something different. He’ll be a lot calmer now, and you should feel better in a few minutes. Let me know if he starts to bother you again, okay?” Henry had crossed the room and dropped the used needle into a garbage pail. He fixed Luca with one last hard look as he lingered in the archway to the hall. “I’m serious, Luca. You’ve got to say something, okay?” 

“ _ Okay! ” _ At Henry’s raised single raised brow, Luca huffed in annoyance. “Okay,” he repeated, much quieter this time. 

Following that up with  _ good _ would probably get the nearest heavy object at hand chucked at his head, so Henry just preceded to the stairs, taking them as quickly as he was able, cursing his still short legs that he couldn’t go up two at a time like his fathers did sometimes. If they were to be believed, someday he’d rival them in height. Dad had repeatedly made attempts at convincing him that Henry was already taller than he was at Henry’s age. All the pep-talks did was leave Henry with the impression that Dad was a very talented lier. 

On the second floor, Henry crept quietly to the nursery at the end of the hall, right across from his parents’ room, whose closed door meant Cephy had found somewhere else to doze. The door to Anna’s room was ajar, however, and Henry nudged it open with his fingertips. 

In the center of the room lay Anna’s crib, likely one of the most ornately carved pieces of furniture in the house. The cradle that both Henry and Luca used had been lost in the flight from France, destroyed and disposed of before the estate had been besieged by police. Staring into the shimmering haze surrounding his sister, Henry wondered if that was  _ Agent Crawford _ they had ran from. His fathers never said. 

Even though he could hear Anna’s gentle, even breathing from where he stood, Henry inched closer, close enough to hook a finger into one side of the curtain. Dad had  _ hated _ the idea, when Papa suggested it, calling the whole set-up pretentious. They’d argued for days, weeks maybe, and yet he still crafted the crib to hang them anyway. 

Henry pulled the delicate fabric away. His approach hadn’t seemed to bother Anna at all, who lay peacefully on her back, one fist raised above her head, opening and closing almost in time with her breathing. Her hair was still rather fair—what little there was of it, even at fourteen months—and eyes blue, like Luca. Henry suspected if one compared a picture of her to that of their brother as a baby, they’d almost be twins. 

He repressed the sudden, inexplicable urge to reach a hand down, touch her squishy cheek or soft wisps of hair. Lately, her repertoire of words had greatly expanded, and Henry had to keep from purposefully waking her—promise to Luca be damned—just to hear her say  _ Hanni _ in her gushy, high-pitched voice. Luca was deliberate in calling him Hanni, contrary because he could be, not from limitations in his speech. But for Anna, it would be a while yet before she realized he actually had two names. 

Because he couldn’t resist doing  _ something _ _,_ Henry reached down and tugged Anna’s blanket up, since she’d kicked it off at some point during her nap. She was likely to just kick it off again later, she always did, but Henry felt better for having done it anyway. When his lingering presence still did not wake her, Henry was satisfied Anna would remain asleep for the rest of her usual daily nap.

Back downstairs, Henry found a different scene than the one he’d left. Luca was seated on the floor at the alpha’s feet, much like Henry had been earlier, although he noted Luca had brought the two photos with him, neatly laid out with their edges aligned perfectly. 

With nothing better to do, Henry grabbed the folder he’d retrieved from the car and plopped down next to his brother on the floor. “So, what are we doing, exactly?” 

Luca shrugged, adjusted one of the pictures a micrometer to the left. “Wanted to see if it worked.” 

“Has it? How do you feel?” 

“Fine.” Not completely pleased with that lackluster answer, Henry lurched sideways, bumping shoulders with Luca hard enough to nearly topple him onto the carpet. His brother laughed, pushing back against him and finally turning to look at Henry. “ _ Better.  _ Lots better,” he elaborated between giggles, trying and failing to similarly knock Henry over. 

Henry remained still as a boulder in a storm, weathering Luca’s frantic shoving. “That’s good, then,” Henry said. Luca growled quietly at the bored, even tone of Henry’s voice, clearly unaffected by Luca’s efforts. 

When he budged not an inch, even when Luca stood to put his whole weight into it, Luca resorted to raining down blows with his little, frustrated fists across Henry’s shoulders and back. It didn’t really hurt, so Henry ignored that too. Turning his eyes up to Agent Crawford, who was watching the scene below him with something  _ almost _ resembling amusement, Henry calmly said, “Means I don’t have to do anything more… drastic.” He let the word hang as he regarded Agent Crawford with a single raised brow.  _ Just how much worse could it get for you? _

That emptied the alpha’s eyes of mirth instantly, pulling a small smile from Henry. He let himself finally succumb and collapsed onto his side on the floor with the next shove from Luca, who crowed in triumph. 

Henry had barely a moment to appreciate the sound of his brother’s delight when forty pounds dropped onto his torso without warning, punching a wheezing gasp out of him. 

“I win!” Luca declared, sitting atop Henry’s ribcage. His brother was heavier than he looked, and Henry had unfortunately fallen on top of the thick folder he’d placed on the ground next to him. Not able to tolerate having his lungs compressed from both sides for long, Henry sat back up, dumping Luca onto the floor. Gently. 

But he could have dropped Luca onto a veritable mountain of feather down pillows, for all the difference it made in his reaction. Luca shot him a nasty glare. “Hey!” 

“I need to be able to breathe, Lucky. You can’t just sit on me.” 

“Can too.” 

“Can not.”

“Can  _ too!”  _

Henry rolled his eyes, dropping the argument rather than let it escalate. He was more preoccupied with his sudden annoyance at Agent Crawford, who he noticed had that expression back on his face as he looked down at Luca. Only Luca. Henry couldn’t quite name it but knew he’d seen it before, when the man had started his speech about Henry and Luca’s innocence, although his conviction in Henry’s was likely fading by the minute. 

Little Luca, occasional viciousness aside, was just too young to be anything but.  _ That poor boy _ _,_ the look on the alpha’s face said, coming dangerously close what Henry realized was likely pity. Henry sincerely hoped it wasn’t, for Agent Crawford’s sake. 

Because if it was pity, Henry would feel compelled to do something quite drastic indeed, like seize the first sharp implement he could get his hands on and gut the agent where he sat, pulling out all his insides until they were in a steaming pile on the floor at his feet and he was hollow.  

Consumed by the image, Henry looked around the sitting room, trying to figure out where the closest knife would be. There were plenty in the kitchen, of course. On one of the shelves, there was possibly a scalpel. Papa did like to sketch in this room. But Henry knew himself enough to know that, in his current mood, he’d go too far if he got his hands on such a thing. The agent still needed to be questioned, after all, and that could hardly happen if Henry lost control of himself. 

Still, he had to do  _ something.  _ He got up, ignoring the inquiring noise from Luca that followed after him, and wandered the room until he came upon the perfect solution. 

If Henry had been correct about what drug he had administered to Agent Crawford earlier, he should be a little sleepy and fuzzy-headed, but otherwise have full feeling throughout his body. He dropped onto the floor, concealing his hand behind his back, and smiled up at the man in question. A sweet smile, this time. The kind he gave to the folks tending the candy stalls at the markets his fathers sometimes dragged him to. 

As soon as he noticed a bit of tension leave the agent’s shoulders, he whipped his hand out and jabbed the discarded needle he’d plucked from the garbage into Agent Crawford’s leg. There was just enough of a gap in the rope that he didn’t have to focus on aiming, instead concentrating on driving it as deeply as he could. 

If the jolt the action sent up Henry’s arm was any indication, along with the loud, muffled bellow of pain above him, he hit bone.

Henry did so love being right. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was working on this one far later than I would have liked, haha. As such, this chapter is unbeta'd beyond the rough draft that [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose) looked over months ago. 
> 
> Next chapter Abigail _finally_ gets home! 
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry picks up some light reading material while Jack continues to try his patience.

Once Agent Crawford had quieted down—and _honestly,_ one little needle did not necessitate quite that much screaming—Luca decided a nice long chat about his favorite subject was in order, which was the duck pond situated about a mile and half into the woods out behind the house. Luca launched into an impassioned, well-rehearsed lecture about what was or was not suitable to feed ducks, the different species found in this region of Italy, and what their eggs and nests looked like (and how to carefully observe but not disturb them, or else get bitten by an angry Mama Duck.)

Luca had been bitten many, many times.

Because if he were so inclined, Henry could recite this speech word for word along with his brother, Henry turned his attentions to the folder in his lap. Upon opening it after removing the twine, he saw the faces of his fathers again at the top of two FBI’s Most Wanted printouts. He quickly scanned the contents of the pages, but nothing there was particularly unexpected or shocking to him. He did find confirmation and proof that, as far as the Agent Crawford or anyone else knew, Papa was an alpha, not an omega. Well, Henry supposed _Dad_ must have known, since they were bonded before moving to France.

More interesting than that, however, was little details he found on another page about Dad. He’d told Henry in the past that he used to be a teacher, but not that he’d taught at the FBI Academy. That was miles away from Henry’s mental image of his father wearing pullover sweaters and handing out pop-quizzes and vocab lists. He supposed this meant Agent Crawford really had known his fathers personally, and not only that, thought he knew them _well._ How terrible that must have been, when he realized the truth. What they really were.

Henry turned the pages over as Luca smoothly transitioned to talking about geese. Another treasured subject, albeit somewhat less favored than ducks. Next in the pile were crime scene photos, reports, and serial killer profiles, put together by none other than Dad, which was another thing Henry hadn’t expected. The entire collection of documents and images seemed almost entirely dedicated to a killer called the Chesapeake Ripper. It didn’t take Henry long at all to deduce who was responsible for these particular kills, who’d taken the time to display the bodies in such a way, even if it was far more grandiose in style and scope than he’d personally seen. Papa’s more recent tableaus were mostly confined to their basement, conceived and birthed in the same space, for the same audience of two each time. Sometimes three, if Abigail was home that week.

However, perhaps it was only obvious to Henry because he actually _knew_ the Chesapeake Ripper. He recognized the brush strokes, knew the hand of the craftsman because it’d held and guided him all his life. That hurt, anxious feeling he’d been harboring for most of the afternoon suddenly seemed incredibly silly. Of _course_ he knew his own fathers better than this stranger.

Curious now, and because he assumed the agent was a little more aware of the limits of Henry’s patience, Henry stood in one swift motion and ripped off the duct tape securing the makeshift cloth gag. Without prompting, Agent Crawford spit out the napkins, coughing and making quite a show of his discomfort.

After his initial bout of annoyance, Henry hadn’t paid much attention to the alpha but could now see he was practically vibrating with some sort of intense emotion underneath his many layers of rope.

“You shouldn’t be looking at that. I—I don’t care what you say you’ve witnessed, countless trained professionals have lost their composure at nearly every one of those scenes. If a grown man or woman can’t handle it—just, put it away, okay, kid? Put it away.” The words fell out of Agent Crawford in a hurry, as he glanced back and forth between Luca and Henry, who had resumed his position on the floor with the folder’s contents now spread out before him.

Henry huffed at the order, however kindly and gently spoken. But he was not creature of spite—not solely that, anyway—so as a compromise, Henry scooted the papers to the side, out of the line of Luca’s vision, whose endless diatribe about water fowl had paused when the agent’s mouth had been freed.

“Looking at what?”

Henry adjusted to more completely block the documents and said with a bored shrug, “Dead bodies.”

Luca scrunched his face, displeased. His expression shifted after a moment to one of wary hope. “Any pictures of Daddy and Papa?”

This Henry wasn’t sure of. He hadn’t finished perusing the entire folder. Just to be able to answer the question, he turned to the side and quickly flipped through the rest of its contents, eyes keen on any further photos that would appeal to his brother’s interests. Finding nothing, he went back to the beginning and grabbed the two printouts, handing them over.

“It’s the same picture, but you can take these.” Henry was fairly certain Luca could read everything on those pages; his brother inhaled books the same way a man dying of thirst consumed water: eager and greedy, finishing far sooner than he’d like and desperate for more.

Like he expected, the papers were snatched from Henry’s hands almost quick enough to cut him, had Henry held on half a second longer. His fingers had been cut up enough in the last year to learn that particular lesson. Even with a new prize in his grasp, Luca still asked, “Nothing else? Just dead bodies?”

Making a show of rifling through the folder, Henry made a consolatory noise, to which he got a dramatic sigh in response. “Sorry Lucky,” he said. “Everything else is boring. Official cop stuff.”

Luca shrugged, more focused on arranging and rearranging his new treasures. Henry knew he was going to feel so, so awful when they were taken from him later tonight. At least for now Luca had something to occupy his mind until the rest of the family was home. Likely he had already forgotten what inevitably had to happen. Henry wondered if that made it worse.

“Thank you,” the agent said under his breath, an exhalation of relief and gratitude that Henry wasn’t sure what to make of. When Henry only acknowledged what was said beyond a raised brow, Agent Crawford went on, “For not letting him see. He’s too—”

“Shut up,” Henry growled. “He doesn’t like it. That’s all. Has nothing to do with whatever you’re thinking.” If the _I_ word was uttered one more time, Henry could not be held accountable for his actions.

When nothing further was said, Henry stretched out along the floor, pointing his back to Luca, and returned his attention to the file.

Eventually, Henry found a delightful, bestial body set up like a museum display piece. It was not entirely clear from the paperwork that this was a Ripper killing, which Henry found even more intriguing.

Careful that none of the image was visible to Luca, Henry sat up and held it up to Agent Crawford’s instantly recoiling face. “Tell me about this,” Henry asked. He supposed it wasn’t polite to leave off the _please,_ but who here was going to chastise his manners? _Luca?_

“Put that away.”

The commanding, rather than pleading, tone had Henry’s hand dip a fraction of an inch. He debated whether it was hilarious or irritating that Agent Crawford thought he had any power in this room, any leverage to demand Henry to do _anything at all._ But there was nothing to back up the order, not with those drugs still in his system, so Henry merely cocked his head to the side and lifted the photo a little higher, slowly raising one brow. He’d practiced this in a mirror. “No. Now, tell me.” And to demonstrate that of the two of them, it wasn’t _Henry_ for whom it was in his best interest to be obedient, he flicked the needle sticking out of the agent’s leg.

Agent Crawford winced and grunted something that was probably a curse. When his eyes opened again, he looked down to see Henry’s expression had remained largely impassive. The agent’s face shuttered, like a piece of him had cracked irrecoverably at the sight. Had he not been tied up, Henry assumed his whole body might have shivered. A curious response, but Henry would rather know more about the displayed creature.

“The body,” Henry reminded him, shaking the image for emphasis. The shiny photo paper made an interesting sound, like synthetic thunder or maybe a crackling, mechanical fire.

With a brusque jerk of his head, the agent muttered, “It’s all in the file. I have nothing to say about it.”

That answer wouldn’t do at all, and Henry wondered if a savage bite to the shin would loosen the man’s tongue. Unfortunately, aside from the small gap he’d taken advantage of, Agent’s Crawford’s legs were completely surrounded with rope. Henry’s panicked mummification of the man was already coming back to haunt him.

Disappointed, Henry returned to the file, trying to find anything he missed. “Doesn’t seem like you caught the killer,” he noted absently.

“Not yet.”

The determination in those words would almost make Henry laugh if it didn’t simultaneously infuriate him. That Agent Crawford could sit there, so utterly at Henry’s mercy with no hope in sight, and think _he could still win …_ That at the end of this ordeal, Agent Crawford thought he would be free and Henry’s fathers would be in chains. It was beyond imagination. Baffling and enraging in equal measure.

Henry forced himself to take a deep breath and let go of the document he’d been crumbling into a ball in his fist. It was a wrinkled mess now, and Henry tried to focus on smoothing it out. He’d decided against indulging in any gutting fantasies not fifteen minutes ago; his resolve wasn’t going to break this soon. Keeping calm was paramount.

The forensic report was more or less flat by the time he asked, “Which do you think did it?” It wouldn’t be in the file if it wasn’t one of his fathers, Henry reasoned.

“We don’t know.”

Henry looked up, eyes narrowing. The agent wasn’t looking at him anymore, but his jaw was set. Henry could hear him grinding his teeth.

“Surely you have a _suspicion,”_ Henry said and watched as the man became ever more tense.

“It doesn’t matter!”

It did matter, at least to Henry, but he could see it was a moot point to argue. If Agent Crawford didn’t want to talk about it, that was his business. Henry had a feeling he knew who it was anyway.

“You shouldn’t yell,” was Luca’s useful contribution to the conversation. “Our sister is still sleeping.”

“I shouldn’t-” the agent paused, blinking down at Henry’s brother, before giving a sharp bark of laughter. “You kids have much bigger things to worry about than _naps.”_

Luca wrinkled his nose at the alpha’s tone and looked over at Henry in time to catch the exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Sighing deeply, the agent leaned forward as far as he could, pulling the restraints taught against his chest and arms. Henry didn’t miss the new wince on the man’s face, even if he schooled it right away. “Listen, son—Luca, sorry Henry. Luca, if you’re worried about your baby sister now, think about what happens when this all goes sideways.” His head turned slightly, no longer addressing Luca. “Your brother, the baby—they’re going to be taken by the state, Henry. You’re all going to get split up.”

As he spoke, Henry saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He quickly, gently, laid his hand over his brother’s clawing fingers, digging rough and frantic into the carpet. At his touch, the fingers stilled, curling into a twisted fist like a dead spider.

The agent kept talking. “If they’re even alive, they’ll probably try and find your real parents,” he was saying, fixing Henry rigidly with his gaze. “For your sake, I hope they are.”

That particular bit of idiocy made Henry have to lurch to the side and grab his brother about the waist.

_“You’re a liar!_ ” Luca shrieked, still mid lunge. Henry tightened his arm, keeping him down on the floor. Good to know it wasn’t only Henry in which the agent provoked impulsive bouts of rage.

Luca snarled over his shoulder at Henry, eyes narrowed and teeth barred, but otherwise didn’t fight against the hold. Once he seemed more or less calm, Henry cautiously let go. Luca wasted no time in angrily scooting backward, putting distance between him and Agent Crawford. At the last minute, he remembered the task that had been occupying him and darted an arm out to grab his abandoned printouts and photos. Safely retrieved, he made a point of ducking his head low to resume reading, ignoring the conversation entirely.

_“That’s_ a new theory,” Henry remarked after Luca was settled. He idly picked at an uneven nail. Was he even going to get a thank you?

“You need to take this seriously,” Agent Crawford said. _Guess not._

“I am. Just not in the way you want me to.”

“What I _want,”_ the agent said through his teeth, “is for you kids to be safe.”

“We are.” One would be hard pressed to find four better cared for children. Henry couldn’t understand why this was even an issue. “Our fathers-”

“Are ca-criminals. Murderers. You’ve said so yourself. _You know this_ _._ Stop trying to protect them, Henry. They’re not going to escape, not this time. It’s not too late, not for you, and especially not for the little ones. Let me help you. Just untie me, I can get you somewhere safe, far away from here. You know it’s the right thing-”

Henry had heard enough. He stood and hurriedly stuffed the damp napkins back into Agent Crawford’s mouth. The duct tape lay discarded nearby, but it was still tacky enough for his use. Henry reapplied it with an uneven—and ungentle—slap of his palm.

“If you’re going to deliberately get on my nerves, you can just stay quiet.”

“Yeah!”

Henry turned to look at Luca, who had a triumphant and proud little grin on his face. It lasted for a handful of seconds before Luca resumed his reading, following the printed words in front of him with the tip of a finger. Now that Henry was watching him, he could see the subtle movement of his brother’s mouth, trying to sound out the various, multisyllabic descriptions of their fathers and their crimes.

Ignoring the agent as he slumped back in his chair, eyes closed, Henry sat down and dragged the folder into his lap, since Luca was seated behind him now. Unfortunately, nothing else in the file really caught his interest, and he didn’t feel like diving too deeply into the pages and pages dedicated to the bloody trail his parents apparently left along the eastern coast of the States eleven years ago and then again across Europe six years after that.

Henry was about to ask Luca if he wanted to go into the playroom and watch some television, or really, do anything other than sit quietly and act as a tiny guard for the alpha, when he heard a car begin to pull up to the house. Specifically, _Abigail’s_ car.

He wasn’t the only one to notice, as Luca’s head popped up like a prairie dog, eyes wide and mouth hanging open in explosive delight. Because he was likely to forget in his excitement, Henry strode over and crouched down to Luca’s level. “No yelling, remember?”

Like squealing aloud in happiness was not something completely under his control—and, if Henry was honest, at four it probably wasn’t—Luca dramatically slapped a hand over his own mouth.

Henry smiled and gave him a few pats on the shoulder. “Good thinking. Now, I need to go catch Abi before she comes in here and freaks out. Watch him one last time for me?” At Luca’s perfunctory little salute in answer, Henry couldn’t help but laugh. He ruffled his brother’s hair and could hear the indignant, muffled holler of rage behind him as he crossed into the hall.

Henry rushed to open the front door mere seconds ahead of Abigail, who stumbled slightly over the threshold, keys in hand. She stared down at him with pinched brows.

“Hey!” Henry grinned, easy and calm.

Abigail opened her mouth to respond but promptly snapped it shut when Henry nudged her back out onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him. She looked at the house that she’d been cut off from, then back to Henry. “What’s going on?”

“I have everything under control,” Henry said right away, holding out his hands. And he kind of did; it wasn’t a complete lie. Abigail raised a skeptical brow at him anyway. _There’s no way to make this sound good,_ he thought, deciding to just spit it out. “A man showed up not long after the sitter left. He says he’s with the FBI.”

Abigail’s sharp intake of breath made Henry wince, and he swallowed hard. Her hand wasn’t quite trembling when she placed it on his shoulder, making Henry envious of her mastery over her own nerves. Her voice was quiet and even when she asked, “Did he give you a name? Where is he?”

“He’s inside, bound and gagged. His name’s Jack Crawf-”

“Shit!” Abigail spun away from him, hands curled into fists at her sides. Henry watched with wide eyes, mouth gaping like a fish, as she took a step toward the agent’s car, like she only just now took notice of it. She turned back to him briefly, looked about to speak, before spinning around again. Her hands buried themselves in her hair, keys included. “Shit shit _shit!"_

This was probably not the ideal time to remind her about Papa’s house rules, so Henry remained silent. It was hard to keep himself calm, overwhelmed as he was starting to feel at Abigail’s distress. Alpha anger he had experience with, could understand. He was starting to learn how to ignore it, at least a little. But this was different. An upset omega was bad enough, worse still if they were family. One rapidly becoming _terrified_ filled Henry with a sense of alarming helplessness that he didn’t know what to do with.

Panic began clawing at his chest, a quickening of breath and heartbeat that he suddenly had no control over. He whined, pitifully. If Abigail was this frightened, then maybe things were worse than he’d thought. The stress of the afternoon seemed to hit him all at once, his efforts so far to mentally keep it at bay rendered useless, both from what was likely a completely appropriate amount of fear and the result of being inundated by emotionally debilitating omegan pheromones.

Sensing the change in his mood, Abigail whirled to face him, the fear on her face having shifted to guilt and concern. Before Henry could blink and let tears begin to fall, she crossed the handful of feet that had come to separate them.

“Oh, Henry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she was saying, having tightly wrapped him up in her arms. “It’s going to be fine. It’s all going to be fine.”

Henry did _not_ sniffle against his sister’s shoulder, he did not. All the same, he pulled away from her slightly and furiously wiped at his eyes, likely turning his eyes and face even more red than it already was. “I know that.”

Abi chuckled and rested her forehead against the front door, breathing deeply. She kept Henry held to her as the air slowly cleared of the panic and terror that had been gripping her. Henry waited patiently as she calmed herself, knowing neither of them would want her inside the house until she was more in control, for Luca and Anna’s sake.

Now that he wasn’t being flooded by Abigail’s reaction, Henry was more easily able to shove away the stress that had begun to overtake him. He’d been successfully ignoring it for most of the day, and so long as Abigail didn’t compromise him again, could continue to do so.

“You okay?” he asked, once her breathing had evened out.

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” she said with a laugh, twisting her head slightly to both stay connected to the door and look at him. Henry did the same, now that she wasn’t holding onto him anymore. The coolness of the wood felt grounding.

Henry shrugged and compulsively wiped at his eyes again. It’d been… a long afternoon. “I’m fine. Drugged him almost right away, so there really wasn’t anything to—”

“You _drugged_ Jack Crawford?” Abigail was staring at him with wide eyes, incredulous.

He realized too late he’d begun to chew on his cheek, suddenly deep in crisis about whether that had been the right thing to do. Henry was not fond of the taste of his own blood. “Yes?” he cautiously said, feeling far too unsure of himself.

Abigail smiled, though, and something in Henry unwound violently at the sight. “That was smart,” she said, still looking slightly shocked. “You said you bound him? Where is he?”

“Dad’s drinking chair. I used lots of rope, some zip ties. The paralytic wore off already, but he’s not going anywhere. Gave him a mild sedative not too long ago.”

“Dad’s—” Abi laughed, a hand idly tracing the door knob. They wouldn’t be out here much longer. “He’s going to hate that. Where’s he supposed to drink bourbon and brood over what to do about Jack now?”

Henry clawed the rough edge of his thumbnail as he tried not to look too worried. “I think I’ll be lucky if that’s all Dad gets mad about.”

At that, Abigail shot him a narrow look and pointed a long, delicate finger at him. “You are definitely not getting off that easy,” she told him. “You’re going to be grounded until you’re thirty for this stunt. You’ve… Christ, Henry, you _still_ haven’t called them, have you?”

“Uh,” Henry smartly responded, brain stalling on a suitable excuse. “I was busy?”

Abigail could only snort and shake her head. “Can’t wait to see you try and use _that one_ on them." 

That sounded suspiciously like Abigail was going to lay contacting their fathers and telling them what’s happened squarely on _Henry’s_ shoulders, which felt terribly unfair. What was the point of having a real adult around if Henry still had to take the lead in this disaster?

Watching Henry’s face crumple, Abigail only smiled wider and gave him a gentle pat on the back that gradually turned into a shove when she opened the front door.

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack makes every assumption about the Lecter children except for the truth. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Next few chapters feature much more Abigail, and coming up on Tuesday: a flashback! 
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail and Jack get reacquainted. It goes about as well as you'd expect. Henry fondly recollects the last time he was face-to-face with an angry alpha, except that time, his fathers were there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive apologies for this one being late. I hope the fact it's the longest chapter yet makes it up to you guys a little. Also, fair warning: some of those tags are starting to come into play.

It took less than twenty seconds after the front door clicked closed for Luca to come barreling out of the sitting room, launching himself at Abi’s legs and very nearly knocking her over.

“You’re home!” he squealed, looking up at her with his big, blue eyes shining with adoration. 

Abi grinned and hefted Luca up into her arms, holding him with ease at her hip. As she leaned in to nuzzle his nose, making Luca squirm and giggle, she said, “Hey, Lucky. Miss me?” Luca only nodded in response before attempting to burrow his face into her neck, likely soaking in some much-needed calm from a loving and familiar omega. 

Taking a few more moments to indulge herself, rocking Luca back and forth in her arms, Abigail finally turned to Henry and sighed. “Well, I guess I should go see the damage, huh?” 

Henry grumbled under his breath again that he had everything under control and sluggishly waved his arms toward the sitting room, serving as the world’s smallest and most lackluster of ushers. Abigail said nothing of his demeanor and strode past him, shoulders set back, looking as confident and unflappable as Henry had ever seen her, even though he knew what it was. A mask, effortlessly sliding into place before she must confront Agent Crawford. Right before she crossed the room’s threshold, she adjusted her arms around Luca, more effectively caging him and shielding his face from view, a protective hand placed on the back of his head. 

Hurrying not to get left behind, Henry was in step with her moments before she came into view of the agent. Both adults went tense as they caught sight of each other. 

“He’s really here,” Abigail breathed, coming to a complete standstill. Henry could feel her eyes on him—the agent’s too—and clutched at one of his own elbows awkwardly. 

“I told you.” 

“I believed you, Henry, I did. Seeing is something else, though.” She simply stood there for a moment, taking even breaths. Finally, she began moving further into the room. “Ungag him, please,” she said, not even turning to look back. 

As he went to obey, Abigail sat regally on the edge of the couch, keeping Luca close to her side. She was running a hand through his silky hair and rubbing along his back, a gesture just as soothing to her as it was to him. He’d likely be asleep soon, so long as the situation remained calm. 

Before dealing with the alpha, Henry scooped up Luca’s papers and photos, dropping them on a nearby table. It still amused him, the way Agent Crawford tracked Henry’s every movement with his eyes as best he could. Like Henry wouldn’t—couldn’t—do anything too terrible, so long as he was watched. 

Henry approached the chair and yanked the tape off with little warning. The agent’s face flinched only  _ a little _ before he spat out the wad of napkins. Henry eyed the wet clump and made a mental note to just burn them later. Papa likely wouldn’t want them in use again, no matter how many times they’re washed. 

Unsure of whether or when he’d next be needed, Henry retreated a few steps away from the alpha, ending up more or less equal distance between the man and Abigail. 

“I’d say it’s nice to see you again, Agent Crawford,” Abigail was saying now, her posture eerily still and rigid, “but I think we both know that wouldn’t really be true. We were never on particularly pleasant terms, were we?”

“Abigail, listen to me,” the agent panted, big heaving breaths punctuating each of his words. Henry momentarily thought perhaps he’d used the wrong drugs after all, given him something that affected his respiratory system, but then he realized, no, that wasn’t it. When Henry had removed the tape, he’d noticed it was a little high on the man’s face, partially obscuring his nose.  _ Whoops. _

“I’m listening.” 

“I know you think this has to end a certain way. It doesn’t.” Agent Crawford looked like he was choosing his next words carefully, his voice dropping to a near whisper, so very earnest and gentle. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through all these years, but you need to get on the right side of this while there’s still time. If you let me go, now, I’ll make sure everyone understands you were a victim. If you cooperate, if you testify, I can assure you’ll never see the inside of a cell. You and your—” He paused, eyes flicking between the two boys in the room. “The children will be safe. You’ll all be safe.”

His sister snapped a questioning gaze at Henry, nothing more than the corner of her eye and the slight downturn of her mouth. Henry could only shrug in response. He had no explanations for the agent’s deliberate obliviousness. If he still didn’t get it, there was little chance of convincing him now. 

“That is very kind of you to offer,” Abigail eventually said, each word slow and deliberate. “Unfortunately, you’re not in much of a position to deliver on your promises.” 

“I can, Abigail, I just need to get to a phone and I can—”

At this, Henry felt the need to interrupt, saying to his sister, “I’ve got all his things over there, including his phone. Took out the SIM card, but didn’t know what else to do with it. Gun too. I didn’t let Luca touch it.” 

Abigail gave him a slight nod in acknowledgment, but it was the small smile at the end that had Henry feeling especially pleased with himself. 

“Christ, Abigail, Miss Hobbs… Abi,” Agent Crawford pleaded, trying to regain her attention. 

“Abigail is fine, agent. I haven’t gone by Hobbs in a very long time.” The fact that he was most certainly  _ not _ allowed to call her Abi was unspoken but clearly understood. 

The agent groaned, thumping his head onto the chair briefly before leaning forward, the ropes creaking as he pushed against them. “I can help you go home, if you let me. You could finally be  _ free,” _ he ground out. 

Abigail laughed, a quiet, exasperated thing. She shook her head as she gently untangled Luca’s fingers from the scarf around her neck, where he’d been trying to undo the knot there. “And then what?” 

“What do you mean,  _ then what?”  _

“I mean,” Abigail said, shifting to casually cross one leg over another, “Say I agree. I go along with everything you said, all of it. What do I gain with my so-called freedom? Pitying looks from every face I see for the rest of my life, at best. More likely, it’ll be suspicious glances and hateful whispers. Cannibal painted across my door again. Probably worse.” She sighed, leaned her head against the top of Luca’s. “And before you ask, would it matter if I was or not? If I say no, I didn’t know, or no, I knew but refused to participate, who would believe me? You didn’t the last time. Would it be any different now?” 

Agent Crawford didn’t answer her, his face slowly descending into a steely-eyed scowl the longer she spoke. It seemed to confirm something for Abigail, who gave a tight-lipped smile. “I thought as much. You still think I’m a killer, don’t you, agent?” 

“I’m not here for you.” 

She clicked her tongue in admonishment. “Oh, Agent Crawford,” she said. “I suppose I should appreciate the honesty, but you’ve only proven to me that all that would result from cooperating with you is the loss of my family. I won’t go through that, not again.” 

Henry had inched closer while they talked, not pleased with how much movement the alpha had gained in the last hour. He wanted to check to see if the rope had loosened, or worse, knots had come undone. 

“Also, I’m curious,” Abigail said as Henry reached a hand out to pull at a restraint to test it, “how is a dead woman supposed to go  _ home,  _ anyway? I am still legally declared dead, aren’t I?” 

Henry was fairly certain he made some sort of  _ bwha? _ noise at that statement, his movement faltering slightly. It was then that Agent Crawford finally noticed how close to him Henry was, that his hand was hovering inches away from the agent’s body. Whether it was because he was startled or had become fed up with Henry’s actions, Henry couldn’t say, but the warning growl that emanated from the alpha was incredibly, startlingly loud. 

It wasn’t anything Henry hadn’t heard before, so he hardly reacted at all aside from a slight jump. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw Luca jerk in Abigail’s arms, his head whipping up to stare wide-eyed at Henry and the agent. He suddenly smelled so, so afraid, something Henry had managed to avoid  _ all afternoon, _ keeping his brother calm and happy. 

He could hear his sister whispering words of comfort to Luca, trying to settle him back down, but Henry was fuming. He glared at Agent Crawford, who still had his lips pulled back as he stared at Henry, a challenge in his eyes.  _ Why were alphas  _ like _ this,  _ Henry wondered,  _ snapping and snarling like they were the most intimidating thing in the room by default? _

A threatened alpha was a dangerous alpha, at least according to one of society's most prevailing truisms. In the time Henry had been training under his fathers, he’d seen plenty of threatened, scared, downright  _ terrified _ alphas. Ones so frightened they sobbed for their parents or their mates, begged and pleaded and bargained with anything they had and everything they didn’t. Henry had a hard time aligning his memories of those pathetic creatures with the imposing figures alphas supposedly cut in everyday life. 

Henry had asked, once, if alphas were all his fathers ever hunted. It was during a lull point in one of his latest lessons. He’d watched as his Dad secured their latest catch, strapping the still unconscious man down by his neck and extremities to the gleaming metal table in the center of the basement, which was bolted to the floor and strategically placed over some drains. 

Henry had been sitting in a far corner, cuddled up against Papa’s side, head resting on his collarbone. Quarry contained, Dad wandered off toward the workbench, double checking all the tools and various implemented set out, just for that night. Just for Henry. It was the first night Henry had been given the go-ahead to do more than just watch or assist. 

Had he not been nestled next to his father, a seemingly unending source of calm and collectedness, he wouldn’t have been able to sit still from the excitement, thinking about what was to come. 

* * *

“Do you remember the talk we had,” his Papa said, his gently spoken words just a whisper into Henry’s hair, “about what to do if his pheromones start to upset you?”

Henry held back his groan of irritation and nodded. “Yes. I’m to immediately stop, step back, and seek comfort from you or Dad before going any further.” There had also been something about returning to equilibrium in that discussion, taking measures to make sure his “body and system don’t become overly taxed from prolonged exposure to harmful hormonal imbalances.” He’d thought that was a lot of words to just say  _ overwhelmed.  _

But Henry wasn’t a little kid anymore. He wasn’t going to get scared—or overwhelmed. Seeing, however, that his answer hadn’t been good enough, going by Papa’s slightly down-turned mouth, Henry leaned closer and said quietly, with a small, secretive grin, “Preferably you.” 

“I suppose your other father would do in a pinch,” Papa said with a smile, darting his eyes over to the man in question. Feeling a gaze on him, Dad turned, a questioning look on his face, only to see his husband and son erupt into poorly concealed giggles. He pretended not to be too concerned about that and resumed his prep, wandering over to the table to slap at the man’s face a few times. 

When there was no response, Dad turned to look at them over his shoulder. “You sure you wanna wait for him to wake up on his own?” he asked. “Might be a while.” 

“I’m sure,” Papa said. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, and pulled Henry closer into his side. After fussing with Henry’s hair for a moment, he continued saying to Dad, “While we could speed up the process, all we have at our disposal at the moment would interfere too severely with his hormonal responses, which would defeat the purpose of tonight’s exercise.” 

“Right, okay.” Dad looked down at the man on the table and gave the man’s face a few more taps on each cheek. When there was still nothing, he shrugged and walked over to plop down on Henry’s other side with a heavy sigh. He laid an arm out along the back of the couch, his hand coming to rest on the back of Papa’s neck. “Guess we’re in for a bit of a wait then, huh?” 

Henry was boxed in between them, but he didn’t mind. 

“I could try smacking him around a bit more,” Dad offered after a moment of comfortable silence. “Thought I saw a bit of a twitch last time.” 

“I’m happy to wait,” was Papa’s reply, who turned and leaned his head against Dad’s arm. His body slightly curved around Henry with the new position, making Henry feel nearly smothered. He almost wanted to wiggle away a bit, gain some freedom and space to breathe, but couldn’t bring himself to. Not when he felt so content. 

“You happy to wait too?” Dad asked, poking Henry lightly in the rib with his free hand. 

He shrugged, or tried to, but found he didn’t quite have the room to maneuver. “I don’t mind,” he mumbled instead. 

“Y’know, if you just want to watch again, or go upstairs, that’s fine. There’s no rush.” 

“I know.”

“You’ve never been up close like this before, not while they’re still kicking, so to speak. It’s going to be different,” Dad continued, his tone soft. 

That’s what Henry was  _ excited _ about, he wanted to say. Up until that night, he’d always been back here, waiting until the wailing had stopped and the stink of terror had cleared away. He wanted to finally know what it was like a hair’s breadth away, not  _ twenty feet.  _

“In such close proximity, one naturally has a physiological and, just as importantly,  _ psychological _ response to the secreted pheromones associated with various emotional states, like distress, fear, or anger,” Papa explained as he rubbed along Henry’s arm, his voice languid and matter-of-fact, the same tone he used for teaching art history or geography. “Coming from an alpha, they tend to invoke powerful compulsions in omegas and unpresented children to either submit or flee.” 

“Tend to?” Henry asked, latching onto that careful bit of wording. 

Papa smiled anew at him, pleased. “The range of human experience is vast and not entirely predictable. There’s no guarantee any one individual will respond to certain stimulus in an expected way.” 

It took Henry a moment to pick out his father’s meaning. “Does that mean you don’t have those compulsions?” 

“Not anymore.” 

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask  _ why _ or how Henry could learn, but that seemed like a lesson for another night. Instead, he asked, “If you’re so worried about how I’m going to handle his reactions, wouldn’t a beta have been easier? Do you and Dad only hunt alphas?” 

Papa hummed in thought, mulling over the question. Next to Henry, Dad had a keen eye on their guest on the table, who had yet to so much as wiggle a toe, as far as Henry could tell. 

“Not only, no,” Papa answered. 

Dad snorted. “C’mon, Hannibal.” At Papa’s indignant glare, Dad turned, folding a leg across his knee. He hunched over as he spoke to Henry directly. “Okay, yes, it’s true that it isn’t  _ only _ alphas, but they certainly make up the majority. Now there are some good reasons for that. There’s far more alpha men than any other dynamic, for one. They’re more likely to be solitary or have jobs that keep them out late at night. Many, far too many, have aggressive or predatory natures. Makes it not only easy to goad or lure them, but we’re honestly doing a service to the community.” 

This time Papa laughed. 

“What?” Dad asked.

Papa ducked his head rather than reply right away, trying to hide his obvious chuckling, but it wasn’t really working. Henry’s whole body shook with it, wedged as close to his father as he was. 

_ “What?” _ Dad repeated, sounding only mildly offended. “It’s true!” 

“Certainly it is. Remind me, love, what benefit our humble community reaped from being rid of that real-estate agent, oh, what was his name. Anton? Angelo?” 

_ “Alfonso,”  _ Dad hissed, leaning over Henry to glower more effectively in Papa’s direction. Just to be safe, Henry slunk back against the cushions, as far away as he could get. The way his fathers were looking at each other, they were about to start yelling or kissing, neither of which made Henry’s current position ideal. 

Papa smirked, reaching over to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Dad’s ear, making his fiery expression soften a fraction. “Ah, of course. How could I forget? What a menace to society he was.” 

“You didn’t see how he  _ looked _ at you,” Dad snarled under his breath, agitation rising back full force at the memory. Henry could feel it prickling under his skin. “The fu- the disgusting things he said when he thought you were out of earshot and I didn’t understand.” 

“And you said those Italian lessons would be pointless,” Papa teased. He was grinning—and completely ignoring Dad’s frustrated growls—when he looked down to where Henry had retreated, deep into the cushions. His smile melted away, like it never existed, and he laid gentle hands on either side of Henry’s face. “How are you feeling, darling? Nervous?” 

Dad groaned and flopped back onto the armrest of the sofa, running a hand down his face. “You did that on purpose.” 

Henry scooted to sit upright, as much as he could, anyway, with his father hovering over him, hands still on his cheeks. “He wasn’t really bothering me.” 

An arm ensnared around Henry’s neck, tugging him from one father to another. “I’m sorry, baby,” his Dad said, planting a kiss onto his hair and making an obvious effort to reign himself back in. Dad didn’t have as much precise control as Papa or Abigail did, but all Henry could feel now was peaceful, so clearly he succeeded. 

“It’s fine,” Henry said with a shrug at the same time Papa was saying, “It was important he be reminded what even a small amount of an alpha’s anger was like.” 

Dad looked like he had an  _ opinion _ on that, but all three of them stilled upon hearing a quiet, “What the fuck?” come from the center of the room. His fathers shared a brief look, some sort of silent debate between them conducted only with subtle shifts in expression and a tilt of the head. Finally, it seemed Dad conceded defeat and let go of Henry. 

Papa tapped Henry’s leg twice before smoothly uncurling from his position on the couch and striding toward the table. Henry bolted up and followed after him eagerly, slowing to a walk once he’d caught up. 

It felt like miles before they were under the bright, overhead light, where their guest for the evening was squirming as hard as he could, repeatedly banging his restraints against the table. The repetitive clanging of metal felt like a gong deep in Henry’s chest, echoing throughout all the hollow spaces in his bones.

A few awed, quiet moments passed before Henry realized Papa had stopped and was watching him expectedly. The realization that he was being given full reign to do  _ whatever he wanted _ made Henry feel simultaneously giddy and a little ill. Papa’s eyes were scrutinizing him carefully, likely on the lookout for any sign of hesitation or need to step back. Henry was fine, though, and he certainly wasn’t going to chicken out when he’d finally been given the opportunity he’d waited  _ years _ for. 

Taking a deep breath, Henry stepped right up to the table to look down at his lesson—and gift—for the evening. 

The alpha was terribly dull looking. Soft and sweaty, with small beady eyes and limp, wheat colored hair. Altogether one of those men who you could forget existed the moment you ceased to observe him, if you ever did. Not the most interesting of canvases, but considering this was a trial run of sorts, Henry supposed he had no room to complain. He had just moved back a step, intending to get a look at what was set out for him on the workbench nearby, when the alpha finally took notice of him standing there. His and Papa’s approaching footsteps must have been completely masked by the noise the man was making. 

“Who— who are you? Where am I? Kid? Hey, Kid!” Henry made brief eye contact with the man before deliberately turning and ignoring him. He walked up to the workbench and picked up the first item that caught his eye. Its blade was as long as his hand, thin and curved like the sickle-shaped talon of a Deinonychus. The name meant  _ Terrible Claw. _ Henry toyed with the knife, tracing his thumb along the large hole in the handle, and found a way to position it so it jutted out between his fingers. 

He returned to the table, where the alpha had been watching him carefully, eyes darting between his hand, his face, and finally, to Papa who was standing perfectly still, having not moved a muscle. 

“What the fuck is this?” the man snapped, jerking at his restraints again to no effect, other than the sound reverberating loudly against the concrete walls of the basement. Henry stepped closer and rested his hands on the edge of the table as he peered down. The very tip of the blade in his fist poked into the side of the man, who tried to jerk away from it. “The fuck do you think you’re doing with that? Back off!” 

Henry felt his stomach drop, like he’d missed the last step on the stairs, and his heart picked up speed as the alpha in front of him grew more frustrated, tugging at his bound arms and legs, not in alarmed confusion anymore, but full on rage. But he couldn’t get free, Henry reminded himself. No one had ever broken out of these restraints, not even far larger and stronger alphas.

He hadn’t expected breathing to be so challenging already, the air growing thick with the unpleasant, stifling scent of the alpha’s ire. 

Swallowing past a lump in his dry throat, Henry raised the hand that held the knife and try to ignore the slight tremble in his arm. Before his nerves could get the better of him, Henry jabbed his “claw” into the meat of the man’s arm, testing to see how much force he needed to get past the skin. He’d only ever taken a knife to the softer, inner bits of flesh before, helping Papa harvest for the freezer. 

It took less force than he’d anticipated, and the knife sunk deep into the man’s arm, provoking a startled yowl so loud Henry immediately jumped back half a foot. His heart was hammering, and Henry realized his hands were shaking, having let go of the blade still stuck where he’d left it. 

The alpha was shouting something, loud, pissed off, and pained, but Henry found he couldn’t follow the words. Honest to God tears were pricking at the corners of his eyes, and he was feeling so  _ stupid. _ He was making a complete fool of himself in front of, right in front—

There was a presence behind him, and Henry instinctively melted back into the comforting warmth offered there, retreating from the yelling alpha and the chill of the basement. His father’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, enveloping him and holding him tight, and he was terribly glad his Papa couldn’t see his face at the moment, couldn’t see the tears or hear his uneven, hiccuping breathing over the clamor from the table. 

Papa was leaning over him, surrounding Henry more thoroughly than before, and all Henry could feel was warm and safe and  _ love. _ It took a few moments, just standing there, but eventually, he felt calm enough to speak. 

“I’m sorry,” Henry mumbled miserably. He’d ruined it. Ruined everything. And the night hadn’t even  _ started. _

__

“Sorry for what, darling?” Papa asked, turning Henry around to face him. Once he got a good look at Henry’s face, he made some sort of displeased noise and dropped to a knee. His used his thumbs to gently wipe away the tears from Henry’s cheeks, held his face.  

Henry vaguely gestured behind him, where he could hear the alpha was still making a racket. “I couldn’t… not even for a  _ second…”  _ Henry sighed, unable to finish the thought. 

Papa nodded his head, like he understood perfectly well whatever it was Henry had tried to say, and ran a comforting hand down Henry’s arm. As he took hold of Henry’s hand, he called out behind him, “Will?” 

“Plan B?” Dad asked, much closer than Henry expected him to be. When had he moved from the couch?  

“Yes, I think so.” 

Henry didn’t know what Plan B was, but he knew he was feeling more like himself, finally. The tears had stopped, and his heart rate had slowed back down. Breathing, in general, felt so much easier. And now that he was calm, he was also starting to make out some of what the alpha on the table was yelling about and turned to look at him. 

“I’m going to rip you apart!” he was screaming, thrashing and likely bruising up his wrists and ankles. His next words were a foul, spit-laden hiss. “Make you watch as I tear the little bastard in half!”

When the next raving statement was something along the lines of  _ “crazy omegan whore,” _ Henry deliberately tuned out, not wanting to hear his Papa spoken about like that. Instead, he glanced back at his father, who had slowly risen behind him and wrapped Henry back up in his arms. Henry was curious what Papa thought about the various insults and threats flung at him, but he wasn’t even paying attention, his gaze fixed down on Henry, a soft smile on his face. If Henry hadn’t failed so spectacularly already, he would have said his father almost looked proud. 

Plan B, it turned out, was Dad slapping a bit of duct tape over the alpha’s mouth to shut him up. “I hate listening to that shit,” he grumbled, wincing a few belated seconds later. 

“I know, Will,” Papa said. Rather than bring attention to Dad’s language slip up, Papa gently nudged Henry closer toward the struggling alpha. He reached forward and yanked the stupid “claw” out of the man’s arm. 

One arm still wrapped around Henry’s shoulders, Papa spoke quietly, nearly in Henry’s ear. “A karambit was an interesting choice, but not the most ideal for randomly stabbing at flesh. Was that what you wanted?” 

Henry shook his head. He hadn’t cared what its purpose was when he’d picked it. “What’s it really for?” he asked, voice hushed, like to speak was intruding on a sacred moment. 

Papa pressed a tender kiss to the side of his head before placing the blade back in Henry’s hand. Henry waited patiently as his father manipulated his fingers until he was, he assumed, holding it properly. Henry’s fist was wrapped around it now, fingers neatly fitting into carved grooves, and his pinky went through the hole in the hilt, thumb moving to rest along the dull, outward curve of the blade. 

“Quick, short slashes,” Papa explained, maneuvering Henry’s arm to render a shallow gash in the man’s side with one blindingly fast movement. The alpha squealed behind the duct tape, panicked eyes darting between his attackers and his sluggishly bleeding wound. “This grip is ideal for precision and utility,” Papa said, then gently adjusting the knife into another position in Henry’s hand. Now it was his pointer finger through the ring with the rest of his fingers curled around the handle. The blade was still pointing away from his body, but now it curved in the other direction. “And this is typically for combat.” 

He waited a moment, letting Henry adjust to the new positioning, before maneuvering Henry a few steps toward the head of the table. “It can also be used as a hook,” Papa went on, “in most any grip.” Papa demonstrated this too, slowly this time, angling the curve of the blade around the side of the man’s neck, jerking his head to the side with one efficient pull. The tip dug in just enough to draw a pinprick of blood. “Not useful to us in this instance, of course, but helpful to know for the future, should you return to this particular weapon.” 

Henry nodded, the action so quick he nearly ended up smacking his father in the jaw. Now that the air was free of alphan anger, leaving only fear in its wake, it was much easier for Henry to think. Even so, he found himself clearing his throat awkwardly before asking, “Could you… Could we stay like this?” 

“Of course,” Papa said without hesitation, readjusting and tightening the grip he had on Henry’s wrist to better shepherd his movements. “Where would you like to start?” 

As the lesson went on, Henry would catch glimpses of his Dad leaning against the stairs on the other side of the table, watching them fondly. It was probably the best birthday Henry had ever had. 

* * *

Now, Henry looked at the agent, whose continual, low growling was causing Luca to shake and fret all the way across the room. Henry found he had only one thought in his head: here was another alpha, duped by society into thinking he would always be the scariest, most dangerous force in any situation, in any room. He was about to learn how very, painfully, wrong he was about that.

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it was worth the wait! Also, horray, Will and Hannibal actually appeared on ~~screen~~ page for longer than a line or two! Still a few chapters to go before they're on the scene for real, so just hold on, folks! 
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose) and [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry is a little terror. Quite literally.

Abi was too focused on trying to soothe Luca to say anything to rebuke Agent Crawford’s rude behavior, so Henry figured it was on him to do so. The agent was regarding Henry’s renewed interest with narrowed eyes and bared teeth, which in Henry’s opinion was beginning to border on downright  _ uncivilized. _

If Agent Crawford was going to keep trying to intimate him into backing away, Henry needed to make it clear he wasn’t scared of him and couldn’t— _ wouldn’t _ —be cowed. Although he was starting to notice that as the man grew angrier, the mild sedative Henry had given him was not doing its job entirely. It was muted enough that Henry wasn’t worried about Luca or the baby being affected, but the fact he could detect it at  _ all _ meant the agent still didn’t  _ get it.  _ Only one of them had the power to be making any kind of threats, and it certainly wasn’t the alpha. It was time Henry made that abundantly clear.

Henry stepped up to the chair, purposefully invading the man’s space. That Henry would choose to get even closer after the alpha’s display was obviously unexpected, and Henry took advantage of the man’s momentary, confused stillness. Henry struck out, jabbing his thumbs up against the agent’s neck, crossing them over his trachea and pressing hard. His other fingers aligned down the agent’s carotid artery, where he could feel an already rapidly accelerating heartbeat. Before the alpha could react, say anything, Henry leaned in, tilting far enough that it was only the agent’s neck keeping him upright, and put all of his weight into his hands. 

Choking wasn’t always about squeezing. Sometimes, pressure worked just as well, and Henry was pressing on Agent Crawford’s trachea with all of his seventy pounds, pinning him against the stiff wingback chair. 

He watched, fascinated, as the alpha’s face slowly went from an enraged red to a lovely, mottled purple. Restrained as he was, the agent couldn’t fight back or put up even a token resistance. All he could do was struggle for every desperate swallow of air, and Henry delighted in listening to the ragged wheeze of his breathing trickle away to almost nothing. 

Satisfied that the aggression from before had been replaced with a dull terror, Henry abruptly removed his hands and rocked back on his heels, trying not to laugh too hard at Agent Crawford’s desperate gulps for air. While the agent gasped and wheezed some more, Henry wandered around the chair, resuming his previous task of checking his knots and for any dangerous looseness in the ropes. There was some mild stretching, he discovered, but the many layers meant the agent was just as secure as ever. 

“Were you just going to let him kill me?” Agent Crawford asked once he could do so without coughing. His voice sounded like an empty beehive, dry and terribly hollow. 

Back at what he was coming to think of as his little guard post, marked out on the plush carpet of the parlor only in his mind, Henry watched as Abigail smiled, calculating and just a little bit cruel, so unlike the warm, carefree versions he was used to. “If he was going to kill you, you’d be dead,” she said. 

“That boy needs help.” 

“From who? Would you care to recommend a qualified psychiatrist?” 

Agent Crawford’s face went more than a little red at that, not yet entirely recovered to its usual color, but he visibly swallowed whatever answer he had to Abigail’s goading. Instead, he reverted back to his original mode of blustering. “That kid just nearly—”

“I believe  _ Henry,”  _ Abigail interjected, tone sharp, “was making a very important point. Don’t try an intimidation tactic like that again.” 

“We don’t tolerate alpha bullshit,” added Luca, startling the hell out of Henry. He’d been shaking and on the verge of tears, the last Henry glanced at him. Luca still looked a bit unsettled, but repeating that little mantra seemed to have brightened his spirits considerably. 

“Language, Lucky,” Abigail chided. She bit her lip, concealing a smile.

Once he was over his surprise, Henry couldn’t stop himself from teasing her if he tried. “Now where could he have heard something like that?” he asked. 

Since sitting down to face the agent, Abigail’s composure cracked entirely, and she didn’t bother hiding her amusement. “He might have overheard a conversation between Papa and me,” she said with a small, unapologetic shrug. “Right before this semester started, Papa was helping me pack while I complained about some aspects of school and the city that I wasn’t excited about returning to. Like being surrounded by  _ so many _ alphas again. He was giving me advice on how to deal with it. I may have jokingly boiled it down to—”

“'Not tolerating alpha bullshit,'” Henry parroted back with a grin. He would feel bad about the swearing, but both Abigail and Luca did it first. 

“Yes, yes that. Of all the things to recall from your eavesdropping, Lucky, that’s what you choose?” 

Luca didn’t deign to give her an answer and merely hid his face away into Abigail’s collarbone instead, laughing himself sick. 

With a deep breath and a fond shake of her head, Abigail’s face was suddenly smooth and stony again, the previous warmth wiped away. Both Henry and Luca took that as their cue to do the same, though his brother needed a few moments more to put a halt to his giggles. 

“Anyway, my apologies for the distraction, Agent Crawford. Where were we? I believe we were just about to agree that it’s in your best interest for you to behave yourself, weren’t we?” 

“What choice do I have?” the agent bitterly replied, eyes narrowed at Henry where he stood. 

“None. You never did, agent, but I’m glad you realize it now.”

He grunted in response, saying nothing further. 

“All right then,” Abigail said no no one in particular, expelling a large gush of air. She looked down at the bundle in her arms and said in a soft voice, “Okay, Luca. There’s still a lot we need to discuss, and I have to go check on Annabelle. You’ve been  _ very _ brave today, and I am so, so proud of you. But for now, do you think you could go play in the other room for a little while?” 

“But I wanna—”

“I know, I know,” Abigail soothed, running a hand through his hair, “but maybe while you wait, you could make a drawing for Daddy and Papa? I bet they’d like that.” 

Luca looked between his two siblings skeptically, like her offer was a trick. Seeing he wasn’t convinced, Abigail tempted him further in a sweet, sing-song voice, “I’ll even let you watch those cartoons I know Papa hates.”

To be fair, it wasn’t just Papa. Luca truly had abysmal taste in television shows. More than once, Henry harbored the suspicion that his viewing habits were maliciously curated to make everyone else in close proximity either want to gouge out their eyes or ram ice picks into their own eardrums. Henry had recurring nightmares that consisted of little else than one particular abomination’s opening theme, repeating over and over again. 

“Really?” came Luca’s awe-filled squeak. 

“Of course! Come on, let’s go get you set up. Henry?” 

Henry’s eyes shifted from his brother’s face to his sister’s, who was regarding him with an expectant look. He gave a small nod acknowledging her unspoken order. When she seemed satisfied he understood what he was to do—and wasn’t that a relief, knowing  _ exactly _ what the right thing to do was—Abigail stood in one smooth, graceful movement, still holding Luca tight. “I’ll be back shortly,” she told him as she passed by, which Henry assumed was more for Agent Crawford’s ears than his own. Henry wasn’t sure what she expected the man to do in her absence; he seemed rather deflated at the moment. 

Not moving from his chosen post, Henry listened as Abigail’s footsteps echoed down the hall, finally fading away as she went deeper into the house, where lawlessness and chaos reigned, as Dad had dramatically put it one evening. It had been in response to Papa’s aggravation about something, Henry couldn’t even remember anymore, but it was concerning the relative state of disorder of the rooms and spaces that weren’t explicitly the domain of his parents. Perhaps even Agent Crawford would be shocked at the state of the room Luca was being deposited into. 

The day before, Anna had managed to get ahold of a permanent marker under the not-so-watchful eye of the sitter. While Papa  _ was _ always so encouraging of their artistic expressions, Henry somehow doubted he would be particularly pleased with the new patterns on the walls. And floors. The bookshelves, too, although how she got high enough for some of those shelves will always be a mystery. Henry certainly won’t be mentioning his involvement. 

At this distance, there was no physical possibility that Henry could hear the ominous music of one of Luca’s favorite shows, but he felt a shiver crawl up his spine anyway, the tune echoing distantly in the corners of his mind. A moment later, he could just make out Abigail’s footsteps in the hall before he heard her ascending the stairs. 

The urgency for Anna to stay asleep was gone now, with Abigail home to calm her, and Henry was fairly certain she was awake by this point anyway, likely content to sit in her crib and chew on her feet until someone came to fetch her. Actually, that gave Henry an idea. As soon as Abigail was back, he was  _ sure _ his sister was going to make him be the one to call their parents. Perhaps if he had Anna with him, though, the sight of her cute, squishy baby cheeks might fend off any potential tirades or lectures. Or, at least, their volume. 

Desperate times called for desperate, adorable baby shields. 

Still trying to shake the faint impression that he could hear the jingle from his nightmares, Henry stretched his arms behind his back, feeling the pull of muscles. Hauling Luca around most of the afternoon was surprisingly tiring. Since he could sense the alpha’s eyes on him, he stretched his arms out in front too, taking the time to slowly crack each knuckle and then his neck. 

Henry shot Agent Crawford a crooked, toothy smile. When he only received a scowl in response, Henry leaned back to peek out into the hall. He couldn’t hear Abigail or Anna just yet. 

Because there would be little time for this particular sort of nonsense later—but mostly because he thought it’d be funny—Henry took a few quick, precise steps toward the agent, getting nearly as close as he’d been when he had his hands around the man’s neck earlier. When Agent Crawford tried to jerk away from him, violently thudding the back of his head against the chair, Henry’s grin grew a little wider, a little more feral. 

“Something the matter, sir?” he asked sweetly, eyes wide and innocent. The agent didn’t answer. Instead, Henry noticed he was oddly fixated on Henry’s teeth. As far as Henry knew, there was nothing particularly interesting about them. But maybe it was…

Wanting to test his theory, Henry leaned back slightly from where he had been hovering, hunched over in front of his captive’s face. Taking this retreat as a sign Henry was going to leave, Agent Crawford relaxed what muscles he could, sitting up a bit. Henry went so far as to turn away, lift his foot like he was going to walk back to where he’d been standing guard. At the agent’s slow, relieved exhale, Henry spun back around, diving forward as close as he dared and snapped his teeth centimeters from the alpha’s exposed throat. 

It was mild still, but the rank scent of fear remained so much more pleasant to Henry than that of anger. 

“Christ!” the agent yelped, unable to move away or cover the vulnerability. 

Henry giggled to himself helplessly, nearly skipping back to his post a few feet away. 

“Oh calm down,” he laughed, watching as the man continued to breathe heavily and stare at him with wide, bewildered eyes. “My jaw’s not strong enough to  _ actually _ tear out your throat. Mouth’s not big enough, either,” he assured, grinning so wide is honestly hurt a little. And since messing with the alpha was far too amusing, he added with another clack of his teeth, “Yet.”

“You’re just as psychotic as they are,” the agent said, resigned and horrified in equal measures. 

“I don’t know, you’d have to ask a professional about that, Agent Crawford. I’m just a kid.” 

Henry could see the alpha’s jaw working rather furiously as he was silent for a good long while. Finally, he was awfully quiet as he said, “Yes. You are. It’s not too late for you.” 

“Sure, okay.” In an effort not to show the obvious roll of his eyes, Henry turned away from the alpha, staring intently at a painting on the wall and digging his hands into his pockets. 

“I mean it,” Agent Crawford said, a sliver of hope edging its way into his voice. Henry could hear him adjust in the chair, leaning towards him, like being closer will make the words sink in any deeper. “We could get you help, undo some of… whatever this is. What they’ve done to you. This doesn’t have to be who you are.” 

Henry just nodded, adjusting his stance slightly to make sure the man could see it. 

“It’s never too late to be a good person. To the right thing.” 

Clenching his jaw, Henry kept his face downturned. What little of his face the agent could see, Henry thought it likely looked unsure. Wavering. “Really?” 

“Yes. Yes really.” 

Hunching over slightly, Henry wrapped his arms around himself, a desperate, self-containing hug in an attempt to hold himself back. “I don’t know.” 

“All you need to do is untie me. Then this can all be over. We can get you help, get back on track to be who you’re really meant to be,” the agent said. His voice had taken on a gentle sort of authority, the kind that promised safety and protection in exchange for obedience. The kind that said the speaker would fix everything, that you could trust them.

“And who is that,” Henry asked in a whisper, just loud enough to be heard. 

“A good kid. A decent kid. I know you have it in you, just-”

A snort escaped Henry before he could stop it. His hands flew to his face in an attempt to pass it off as a sob, but it was too late. “Ah, that probably would have been a good moment to cry,” Henry said, act abandoned and posture returning to normal, “but I’m just not very good at doing it on command.” He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. No one, least of all a random FBI agent, needed to know how much that irked him. If his fathers ever took him out hunting, it would be a useful skill while he was still small and looked harmless, but pretty soon, he’d be too old to use it as a lure. He supposed tears-on-demand would still be effective if he didn’t grow too tall, presented as an omega in a few years, but both of those were variables well outside of his control.

Henry supposed lamenting the unfairness of such a thing was pointless. Not everything could be controlled or predicted, no matter how much he wished otherwise.  

For now, he knew he should focus on what  _ was _ within his power to influence. Like the alpha watching him with a hilariously furious and almost  _ hurt _ expression on his face. On the one hand, perhaps it had been a tad mean to make the agent think he was honestly “getting through” to Henry. False hope was uniquely horrible in this sort of situation, in Henry’s experience.

On the other hand… because he could hear the quiet thumping of his sister walking down the stairs now, Henry feinted a lunge at the agent, just to watch him flinch one last time. 

When Abigail finally entered the room, a slightly groggy Anna in her arms, she only paused briefly to observe Henry, who was bent in half and laughing so hard he was near wheezing, before shaking her head and resuming her perch on the edge of the couch. 

“I suggest you keep yourself under better control,” Abigail was saying as Henry righted himself, rubbing a spot on his side that had started to ache. 

Henry opened his mouth to argue, complain, or lie—he hadn’t decided yet—but Abigail held up a hand to silence him. He obeyed. 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she clarified. “I could smell your fear as soon as I was downstairs, agent. Get a handle on yourself or I will do it for you. I am not above surgically removing your scent glands if that’s what it takes.” 

“You wouldn’t,” the agent growled out, prompting Henry to helpfully back up the threat. 

“Abi’s in medical school to be a surgeon,” he said with a proud grin. His sister was incredibly smart and talented, and someday she was going to save so many lives. Professionally, anyway. What she did in her spare time was another matter. 

Seeing the agent wasn’t swayed, Henry went on, “So  _ she _ knows exactly where those glands are, where to cut, how deep… But if you don’t like that idea, I guess I could do it instead? I can just pry them out with my hunting knife. Can’t promise I won’t knick something important, though. Abi-” Henry turned to his sister and grasped a hand behind his back as he leaned toward her. “There isn’t anything  _ vital _ in the neck, is there?” 

At that, Abigail smiled slightly, mostly because, Henry assumed, she hadn’t planned on being very meticulous herself when performing the hormonal equivalent of a lobotomy. 

The sharp scent of fear spiked from the alpha, strong enough now for Henry to notice where he stood, but it just as soon mellowed out, almost to nothing again. Agent Crawford was taking deep, measured breaths, and swallowed once, twice, before saying in an unsteady voice, “That won’t be necessary.” 

Abigail flashed the alpha a brief, almost professional smile. “I’m so glad to hear that. Before we go any further… Henry, I believe there’s something you need to do?” 

All on their own, nearly every muscle in Henry tensed.  _ Crap. _

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Who's a baby sociopath? You are, Henry! Yes you are!
> 
> I'm happy I managed to get this out to you guys on time today. You can tell Henry is starting to relax and enjoy himself. Not exactly how most 10-year-olds let off steam, but what can you do.
> 
> Next chapter Henry makes a very important (and overdue) phone call! 
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose) and [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry finally does the _right_ thing about three hours too late.

 “Gag him first, then get my phone.”

Abigail cradled Anna in one arm, and their little sister was getting a bit big for the position. Her chunky legs dangled off the end of Abigail’s hand, one occasionally giving a half-hearted kick. Anna took ages to properly wake, so she was likely to be in the same lethargic state for at least a little while longer. Enough time, hopefully, for Henry to get through this phone call.

With a sigh, Henry dutifully followed Abigail’s directions. He only needed to narrow his eyes slightly at the agent to get him to cooperate without complaint. The napkins, by this point, were so repulsively saturated with alpha spit it made Henry’s skin crawl to have to touch them long enough to stuff them back into the man’s mouth. 

Task finished, he sprinted for the kitchen as quickly as he could and thoroughly scrubbed at his hands in the sink. They were red from the hot water and felt a little raw when he was done with them, but if he kept with his plan to hold Anna during this call, he wouldn’t want to get strange alpha-stink on her. 

Feeling clean now, Henry found the phone in Abigail’s bag where it had been dropped on the entryway table and trudged back into the sitting room. 

Abigail was watching for him and beckoned him with a crooked finger when he lingered in the archway for a moment too long. Knowing he’d run out of excuses and reasons to put this off anymore, Henry dragged himself to the sofa and dropped down with a huff. He held the phone out to his sister and stubbornly stared in any direction other than hers. The set of antlers over the fireplace could use some dusting, he thought. 

Henry felt Abigail’s fingers close over his own, wrapping them tightly around the cell instead of plucking it from his grasp.

“You should have done this hours ago, Henry.”

“Don’t you want—”

“No. I’ll talk to them after,” she said, stern but gentle. 

Henry heaved himself back against the sofa with a sigh, the cushions deep enough that his feet dangled well above the floor. Sitting up as straight as he could manage—because the urge to curl in on himself was so very strong—he held out his arms, gesturing toward Anna. “Can I hold her?” 

Abigail scoffed. “That trick’s not gonna work. You think no one used chubby little Hannibal Junior to try and ward off a scolding?” 

Not sure whether to take offense at being called a fat baby or the fact that his planned defense wasn’t as original as he’d anticipated, Henry instead asked, “Why not?” 

“Well if it was me or Dad, Papa would just grab you. You forget how fast he can be.” 

Henry let the cell drop into his lap with a dull thud, but his hope was brightened, just a tad. “But he can’t do that over the phone. And I have a hard time imagining Papa using me as a buffer against being in trouble.” He had a difficult time imagining his father  _ in trouble _ at all. Papa did as he liked, and the rest of the world, if it was smart, adjusted around him. 

“He definitely did, although I think he would deny it if asked. Anytime anyone—well, mostly Dad—would get annoyed with him, he’d start carrying you around. Then the argument would turn into him saying some variation of, ‘Your tone is upsetting the baby. Don’t use foul language in front of the baby. The baby can sense your anger.’ And on some level, I’m sure that was true. Sometimes. Other times, Dad would  _ start _ calm and just get more and more mad at each reprimand, until he actually  _ was _ upsetting you. And then he’d have to walk away until he wasn’t mad anymore, about anything,” Abigail said, her laughter bouncing a giggly Anna slightly in her arms.

“Scale of one to ten, how likely do you think those same lines would work on Papa?”

“Negative twenty, buddy.” 

Henry held his arms out again for Anna. “Worth a shot anyway?” 

With a shrug, Abigail leaned toward him and abruptly dumped twenty pounds of wiggling baby into his waiting arms. Anna found the jostling to be hilarious, of course, and squealed as Henry struggled to sit her upright in his lap, where hopefully he would be able to keep her curious hands away from the phone. His arm span was longer than hers, so that should be easy, right?

“Good luck!” Abigail said with a grin before scooting away from him to the other end of the sofa, where she leaned against the armrest to more properly watch events unfold, arms pillowed behind her head. Henry didn’t feel she was being particularly supportive, but whining about it would only result in him being reminded that he brought this on himself. 

To be fair, it was mostly the sitter’s fault. Henry was beginning to doubt his decision in letting her have a head start. 

With a deep, fortifying breath, Henry quickly hit the speed dial for Dad’s cell and held the phone out at arm’s length, angled to make sure Anna would be on screen. He tried to slap a calm, non-anxiety laden smile on his face but didn’t really feel like he succeeded. 

The video call was answered far, far too fast. 

“Well this is a surprise,” Papa said with a warm smile. They were still at the hotel, Papa in bed with a plush, black robe draped around him, sitting up against the quilted headboard. Henry thought he could faintly hear a shower in the background, where he assumed Dad was at the moment, since he hadn’t been the one to answer and was nowhere to be seen. 

Papa looked clear headed and well rested, no sweat visible nor a feverish shine to his eyes. His hair was a bit mussed, but Henry had seen it worse. Had nothing gone so spectacularly wrong, he was sure his parents would have come home in the morning. 

Resisting the urge to dart a pleading look at Abigail—because  _ how was he even supposed to begin? _ —Henry cleared his throat and tried his best to look… normal. “Hi, Papa.” He took up one of Anna’s hands, which immediately curled and tried to dig into his skin, and waved her arm at the phone. 

“How are you, my darlings? Where’s Luca?” 

_ Gazing into hell itself, _ Henry thought with a repressed shudder, focusing on the second question. “I think he’s drawing a picture for when you come home.” Biting his lip, Henry still didn’t know how to start, so instead he said, “Are you coming home soon? We miss you.” 

And that was true. Henry missed his fathers terribly. 

“We had considered staying for our full reservation, but it won’t be necessary. I think we’re both eager to return home.” Here Papa paused, tilting his head slightly as he regarded Henry’s face more fully. “Is something the matter, Henry?” 

Henry gnawed on his lip, suddenly annoyed he had no leverage to bounce his knee. He tapped a finger against the phone, just to have an outlet for the excess energy he was feeling.  _ The FBI found us, _ he thought to say.  _ I drugged an alpha, who I think might have been Dad’s… friend? Boss? Wait, no, start with the sitter! Or good news first? Do I have good news? Maybe— _

“Hannibal.” 

Henry started, snapping back into attention and realizing he had retreated into his burgeoning panic instead of answering his father’s question. At Papa’s sharp tone, he had the disquieting feeling his name had been called a few times. 

“Sorry,” he said right away. “It’s been a long day.” 

“What’s happened?” Papa was sitting up now, instead of comfortably leaning back. “Are you hurt? Is Luca—”

“No, Papa,” Henry said with a shake of his head. “No one’s hurt. But I think you and Dad need to come home. Tonight, as soon as you can.” 

There. Maybe that was enough. They’d hurry home without question, and then Abigail could explain—

“Why? What  _ has happened, _ Hannibal? Where is Mrs. Demetto?” 

Not without question, then. 

Figuring it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to make his father ask him the same question a third time, Henry breathed deeply, wrapping a defensive arm around Anna and pulling her against his chest. She squirmed a bit, tilting her head up to blink at him. Suddenly his chin was very interesting as she grabbed for it, scraping at his skin with her monstrously sharp baby nails. 

Unfortunately, his father never took his eyes off of Henry. The Baby Gambit was not working out as he’d hoped. 

“She left,” Henry finally said when he’d let silence stretch on for a tad too long. “Some kind of family emergency? I don’t know. She was upset. She called Abi to come home early and then…” 

“She left,” Papa repeated, monotone. 

“Yeah.”

“And why were we not informed of this?” 

“’Cause her son got her a new phone, and she couldn’t figure out how to transfer the numbers over.” Henry  _ could _ have easily figured that out for her, but she didn’t ask and he didn’t offer. 

Predictably, Papa narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “I find I have two problems with that explanation. The first is that while  _ she _ might have lost our phone numbers, I am certain you have them memorized, Hannibal. The second is that I left our accommodation information on the fridge. Why did she not call the hotel?” 

Henry stalled, face wrinkling as he rapidly tried to figure out how to spin his answer in a positive, responsible way. “I… hid it?” 

Perhaps a lie would have been better. 

His father’s lips thinned, gaze sharp, worry giving away to something far less favorable toward Henry.

“I only did it because I thought you’d be really mad she left. And you’re, uh, really mad,” Henry observed, squirming slightly where he sat. “But I figured that, I don’t know, if someone in her family died or something, that she should get to spend time with them? For a little bit? Until you found out, anyway.” 

“So I’m to believe you went to the effort to conceal this from us out of compassion for her?” 

Before answering, Henry had to pin Anna’s arms to her body, since she had graduated from scratching to outright slapping at his face. He endured, if only because he suspected she might still have some use when Dad finally made his appearance. Vicious sister under control, Henry turned Papa’s question over in his mind. 

When he’d snatched the note from the fridge, his thoughts had, at first, been about wanting to give the woman at least a day to deal with whatever tragedy had befallen her family. But it quickly shifted to how unfair it would be that Dad and Papa were going to have to return home early. He’d thought everything would have been fine with Abigail coming home after her exams. 

As it wasn’t possible to know when Papa’s heat was going to hit in advance, his parents had had a long-standing reservation at the hotel. It was very likely going to be the last time, and that made it special. It  _ should _ have been special. 

“Not toward her,” Henry answered, having come to his conclusion. “I didn’t want your trip to be ruined.” 

His Papa’s face softened, just a little, though he still seemed doubtful. “That’s not something you’d ever need to concern yourself with, Henry.”

He was only mildly comforted to be back in nickname territory. “I know.”

“More importantly, your priority should have been on the safety of you and your siblings.” 

Repeating  _ I know _ seemed just a hair too far into childish petulance, so all Henry said instead was a sullen and quiet, “Sorry.” It didn’t come out quite as genuine as he’d meant it. 

Papa’s mouth was turning into a grim line again, and oh, that wasn’t a good sign, “Henry.” 

“I’m  _ sorry _ I didn’t contact you immediately, and that I…” Henry grappled for wording that Papa would find pleasing, “jeopardized the well-being of Luca and Anna, who were left in my charge and are my responsibility.” 

If nothing else, the slight quirk of Papa’s mouth was a relief to see, even if the rest of his face remained still as stone. “Rote, but good enough for now,” he eventually said with a sigh, although it sounded a bit fond to Henry’s ears. “Where is Abigail?” 

From the other side of the couch, he sister cheerily called out, “Right here!” 

Papa tsk’d at her. “And you made him do all that alone?” 

“Seemed a just enough punishment,” she answered, flopping forward on her belly and resting her head against Henry’s arm. Her face was just barely visible on the screen. “Hey, Pops. You look good. Glowing even!” 

Their father narrowed his eyes slightly, a distinctly unamused look on his face. Henry wasn’t sure why Abigail was on the receiving end of it, but he was glad to escape the disappointed glare, if only for a moment. 

“And, for the record,” Abigail was continuing to say, “I want it known I called the house the  _ instant _ I was able to—”

“She did,” Henry quickly interjected. “I told her the sitter had gotten ahold of you already, but it’d be a while before you could leave. She rushed home right away. Sat me down and made me call as soon as she knew the truth.” 

Henry could  _ feel _ the intensity of Abigail’s skeptical stare, but he hoped it came off as disbelief that he would be so eagerly forthright, rather than confusion as to why he’d heap even more blame onto his own shoulders. This was his fault, after all; there was no sense in anyone else getting on their fathers’ bad side over it. 

Besides the sitter, of course.

And Agent Crawford. 

Like the thought itself rang a bell to summon his other parent, Henry heard the shower in the background turn off just as Papa was saying, “Thank you, Abigail. Who can say how long he would have waited otherwise. As for you,” Papa sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture that Henry felt was familiar but foreign on this particular father, “I am more concerned about this sudden episode of lying than anything else. The cornerstone of this family is  _ trust;  _ we cannot hope to survive without it. You threaten that foundation by lying to your sister and lying to us by omission.” 

“Who’s been lying?” 

Papa looked suddenly to his right, the displeased expression on his face still firmly in place. He let the hand he’d been using to hold up the phone drop, giving Henry a lovely view of the room’s ceiling. It was white. And bumpy. 

“Our eldest son, it seems,” Papa said. 

“Oh? That him on the phone?” 

“Yes.” 

Abigail sat up, moving out of frame. Henry watched as the phone was raised again and Papa shifted on the bed, scooting over to make room for Dad, who came into view just as his head popped through the neck hole of a muted green Henley, dark curls still damp and plastered down. 

“What’s going on?” Dad asked, not even giving the screen a glance. Henry could tell even from the profile view he was afforded that his Dad’s brows were furrowed deeply in concern. When Papa didn’t answer him, he sighed and turned to face the phone that was being held up. “What did you do?” 

“I didn’t  _ do _ anything!” Henry immediately protested. “Stuff just happened!” 

“Did I imagine walking in on you getting a lecture about honesty?” 

Hoisting Anna a little higher—she’d begun to fold in on herself in an attempt to stick a foot in her mouth—Henry tried not to roll his eyes. “No,” he grumbled, drawing the word out several syllables. 

Dad leaned back against the bed’s headboard and took the phone gently from Papa’s hands. He drew his legs close to his chest and placed the phone against his knees, held in place with a hand. Papa inched closer to still be in view, and Dad softly laid his head against Papa’s shoulder. 

Wrapping an arm around Dad’s shoulder, Papa launched into a succinct summary of the situation concerning the sitter and Henry’s hand in their lack of notification. Brought up to speed, Dad’s brows seemed to permanently descend several inches down his face. 

“I know you think you can handle anything, Henry, but even you should have known better. What’s gotten into you?” 

“I told you,” Henry said, desperately trying to keep a whine out of his voice. “Things just came up. Abigail was already coming home… it was fine.”

“What things?” 

“You’ve stalled long enough,” came Abigail’s voice. She’d returned to her spot reclining against the armrest and nudged his side with her foot. “Tell them the rest.”

Henry couldn’t hold back the urge to hiss at her to  _ shut up,  _ so he didn’t bother trying. His breath was coming in quick bursts, and Abigail’s altogether unsympathetic stare wasn’t helping things  _ at all.  _ This should have been so easy, but it was like now that there were eyes on him, eyes whose judgment he actually cared about, nothing he did was the right thing. He was  _ trying  _ to tell them, but the words just weren’t coming. 

Distantly, he thought he could hear his father’s voice, but his own frantic gasping was drowning it out. In his arms, it took Anna no time at all to pick up on his growing distress, and she began to fuss. It was when she let out a handful of hiccuped cries that Henry realized he let himself get too worked up and was moments away from turning into a shaking, hyperventilating wreck. 

“Breathe, Henry.” He could make out Dad’s words now and tried to follow his directions. He sluggishly rubbed his eyes with his forearm to see the screen better and follow along with the rise and fall of his father’s chest. 

Abigail moved closer and gently touched his shoulder, reaching for Anna. “Why don’t you give her here while you calm down?” 

“No.” He could do this. His breathing had more or less returned to normal, and Anna had already stopped crying. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” His sister didn’t seem happy with his answer, but she drew back anyway, resting on her heels. Henry had the sudden, unprompted thought that shoes weren’t allowed on the furniture. Then again, he didn’t think FBI agents were either. 

“Feeling better?” Dad carefully asked. At Henry’s jerky nod, his father gave him a small smile. “Good. Whatever it is, it can’t be all that bad, Henry. Just tell us.” 

He repressed the urge to laugh hysterically at that, because his fathers were clearly concerned enough for him as it was, judging by their faces. With a shaky breath, Henry decided he’d rather get this over with than drag it on any longer. 

“The reason I didn’t call sooner,” he began, sitting up straighter and raising the phone a bit higher from where he’d let it droop, “was because I was scared… I know I waited too long, and I’m sorry.” 

Papa’s hand stilled where it had been running along the length of Dad’s arm. “This is not about the sitter,” he said, wary. 

“I wish it was,” Henry mumbled. Another deep, calming breath and he felt as ready as he was ever going to be. He allowed himself one small glance to where the agent sat, who had clearly been paying close attention to the entire conversation, although Henry couldn’t begin to name the look on his face. “Not long after the sitter left…” 

Henry debated the exact wording of what to say here. He could vaguely say  _ a man showed up,  _ let his fathers coax and wheedle the details out of him as they grew increasingly worried. Eventually, Dad would probably get frustrated enough to stop asking questions and just  _ come home. _

But shying away from the truth was precisely what Papa had been reprimanding him about earlier, so rather than continue to evade giving a real answer, Henry squared his shoulders and projected the most cheery, relaxed smile he was able.

“An Agent Crawford stopped by for dinner,” he said as he turned the phone around to show the agent going stock still, eyes wide at the screen. “Say hi, Jack.” 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  If Henry could have just hidden rather than go forward with this phone call, he probably would've.
> 
> This update brings us to the end of Act 1! That doesn't mean anything to you guys, really. All three acts of this fic will be in one part, but it does signify an end to the "Will and Hannibal are clueless about the nonsense their son is getting up to" era. 
> 
> Next chapter, Will definitely receives the news of Jack's arrival calmly.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose) and [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will perhaps panics a little. Henry tries to explain himself and later indulges in some creative expression.

“Hannibal, please tell me I have encephalitis again,” Dad said, almost too quietly for Henry to hear.

There was a moment’s pause before Papa’s reply. “You do not.”

When Henry turned the phone around—something he’d rather not have done but figured he couldn’t avoid it forever—a chill went down his spine at the sight that greeted him. Gone was the relaxed cuddling from before. So too were the mildly reproachful looks, the sort that signaled a lack of dessert or perhaps an early bedtime. Their faces now were rigid, tense like coiled springs. Dad was hunched over the edge of the bed, barely holding onto the phone. He must have bolted upright upon seeing Agent Crawford and moved to rise from the bed to speed home. The only thing keeping him seated, as far as Henry could tell, was Papa’s grip on his shoulder.

“Okay,” Henry said after a moment of profound, awkward silence in which neither of his parents blinked. He swallowed down the anxious word vomit that threatened to escape him. “I can explain.”

“I should hope so,” Papa remarked rather placidly.

Dad snapped his head to the side to regard his husband, lurking just behind him. “Why do you sound so fucking calm right now?”

“If there was any cause for panic, I believe Abigail would have informed us straight away about our guest, don’t you?”

“Abi-” Dad regarded the phone with newfound disbelief. “Abigail!”

Abigail groaned, shooting a look at Henry like it was all _his_ fault she was in hot water now. She shifted closer to him on the couch, grumbling quietly under her breath about unnecessary shouting, since she was only _partially_ deaf in _one_ ear.

To Henry’s annoyance, she not only grabbed Anna after settling against his side, she forcibly adjusted and raised his arm until she was perfectly on screen. At least Henry was free to glare at her as much as he liked, out of frame.

“Hey guys,” she said with a strained cheerfulness.  

“What the _shit-”_ Dad was immediately cut off by Papa with a stern look and tightened fingers. Whether it was his tone or the language Papa was taking issue with, Henry couldn’t say, but Dad appeared to at once become fed up with the proceedings entirely, shoving the phone into Papa’s hand and stalking off from the bed and out of view.

Distant zippers and drawers opened and closed with far more force than necessary, to which Papa heaved a weary sigh. Henry inched a little closer, angling the cell so that he was both on screen and could see it better. After watching Dad stomp around their hotel room for a few moments, Papa turned his attention to the phone, eyes briefly flicking to Henry, and said, “Can I trust that you will keep everything well in hand until we get home, Abigail?”

“Of course,” she said. “I would have told you myself as soon as I found out what had happened if I’d known he would _stall_ so much.” The last statement was delivered with a pointed look in Henry’s direction. He refused to acknowledge it.

“I can understand the hesitation,” Papa said, making Henry slightly sag with relief. There was some muffled growling that Henry couldn’t understand. It was the disembodied rumble of Dad’s voice that Papa responded to next. “There’s no need to be so hasty, Will. This does not have to be a repeat of France if we don’t allow it.”

After patiently listening to a few more terse phrases, Papa turned back to them and said, “Even with Jack incapacitated, your father is deeply concerned for your safety.”

“I’m more than fucking _concerned!”_ followed quickly after, plenty loud enough for Henry to hear.

Henry was really hoping his Dad would be getting over the worst of his anger on the drive back home. He felt antsy and uncomfortable enough as it was _hearing_ the ire in his voice. Being in the same room with it didn’t hold much appeal, even if he _did_ miss him.

Unfortunately, it appeared Henry had done a poor job of keeping his thoughts off his face.

“You’re upsetting our son, Will,” Papa said suddenly, mouth downturned and eyes narrowed. He looked more mad about that than he had after seeing the agent.

Dad must have moved closer to the phone, because the harsh laugh Henry heard was clear as day. “I’m upsetting _him?_ Jack Crawford is sitting in our house! Who knows who else might be on their way, what backup he has with him. Christ, Hannibal, our kids were left alone for him to—he could have…” Dad seemed unwilling to voice the rest of that thought, instead muttering in a tangent, “Before we leave, I’m finding that sitter.”

“If it helps any,” Abigail said, only wincing a little when Anna started to chew on one of her fingers, “I think he’s working alone this time.”

“Yeah,” Henry chimed in. He cleared his throat before continuing. “He came to the door and seemed surprised anyone answered, especially a kid. He waited until Mrs. Demetto left and probably thought the house was empty. So, he couldn’t have been watching long, right?”

It wasn’t quite the positive response Henry was hoping for when Dad plopped down hard enough onto the bed to make Papa bounce slightly. He grabbed for the phone but seemed to think better of ripping it away, opting to just tilt it by angling Papa’s wrist. Henry could see the muscles along his arm tense from the severity of his grip. “You answered the door?” he asked, voice low.

Ah. _Crap_.

“I wasn’t going to—I swear I wasn’t. But he was banging really, really loud, and I thought he might come in anyway no matter what I did. I thought if I could just convince him to leave, it’d be okay but-”

“Henry, it’s all right,” Papa cut in, voice calm and soothing. It was only when one of Abigail’s hands snaked up to lay a grounding touch on the back of his neck that Henry was able to breathe properly and quiet himself, swallowing down the flood of rambling excuses that threatened to spill out. Every time he let himself get anxious like this, he felt he was getting closer and closer to the precipice of a full-on panic attack. It wouldn’t be long before the dam broke entirely, he feared.

Papa seemed pleased that Henry had managed to settle so quickly. He almost had a smile when he next spoke. “Tell us what happened.”

“We don’t have time for this. We need to get going.”

“A few minutes more won’t make much of a difference.”

Dad ran a hand down his face, dragging it almost comically low, but Henry knew better than to laugh at the moment. “You don’t know that. Every minute we waste sitting here is just more time we give the police show up and take our children. If we lose them—”

Papa half turned where he was sitting and reached to grasp Dad’s face, a not particularly gentle hold around his jaw and the back of his head. From this angle, Henry could just barely see Papa’s fingers tightly grip the curls at the base of his neck, directing Dad to meet his gaze. “That is not going to happen. It will never happen.”

“Not while I’m here, it won’t,” Abigail added fiercely.

Dad slowly moved Papa’s arm away to better see the screen. His eyes seemed to have lost some of their fury, replaced with a desperation that made Henry feel a little sick. “You should… You should take them and go,” he said to Abigail. “Get everyone to the boat; it’s already stocked.”

“I’m not going to leave without—”

“Abi, if he’s working in _any_ official capacity, even if he never shared _this_ location anyone, someone is going to come looking for him.”

Henry worked hard to keep the phone stable in his hand, even as his arms threatened to tremble and betray him. This was going worse than he could have anticipated, and all he wanted to do was _fix it._

“Look,” Henry said quickly, rising from the couch with the sudden urge to pace. “Dad, it’s fine. I took care of everything, I promise.”

“It’s absolutely _not_ okay, Henry! Hannibal,” Dad turned then with a deep, frustrated groan, and looked at Papa. “It’s ridiculous to keep _talking_ about this. We need to get on the road. Now.”

“But Dad—”

“Henry, I said we’re done.”

“Will,” Papa said, laying a gentle hand on Dad’s knee. “Let him finish. Then we will leave.”

“Are you kidding me right now? We don’t have time—”

“It will take just a moment.”

Dad looked to grind his teeth for a moment before visibly giving up. “Fine. Okay.” To Henry, he sharply pointed a finger and said, “Two minutes.”

That was not a lot of time. _Was he going to keep track,_ Henry wondered just as Dad reached across Papa’s body to snap up a watch that had been sitting on the night table. _That’s a yes, then_.

Henry swallowed hard and saw Dad raise a brow, as if to say, _you’ve already lost precious seconds_. “Okay, so, when I opened the door—and yes, I _know._ I’m _sorry,_ I shouldn’t have done that—” he began, adding the apology in a rush, “he showed me your pictures. He seemed to believe me when I said I’d never seen you before, except once he knew there wasn’t an adult home, he refused to leave! Said either he was going to stay until my sister got home or we could all go to the station in town and wait there to be picked up.”

Henry, quite proud of himself, managed to keep his voice even as he continued. “So, yeah, I let him in. But he didn’t get any further than this room! I offered him a drink right away and then I, uh, drugged it.”

When Papa looked to interject, a curious gleam in his eye, Henry held up a single finger and didn’t pause. _Hold all questions until the end, thank you_. “It worked pretty fast, and while he was paralyzed, I secured him, as you can see.”

To illustrate his point, Henry briefly spun the phone around, once again showing the distinctly ill-at-ease, bound and gagged Agent Crawford.

“I probably went a little overboard with it, but the good news is, he definitely can’t move a muscle, even though I’m pretty sure all the drugs have worn off by now. I’ve searched him, turned off his phone, and got all the files from his car, too. He has a shotgun in there, by the way. Anyway, um, Abigail came home and talked to him for a bit. He’s convinced she’s our mother, for some reason. And then she made—she told me to call you guys. So… that was under two minutes, right?”

He was probably forgetting a few things. Before his Dad called for time, he added, “Also, he hasn’t mentioned anything about backup or other people that he could be working with at all, and I think he probably would have at some point, if only to scare us into letting him go, you know?”

“That’s a good point,” said Abigail helpfully from the couch, just loud enough for their fathers to hear. “He was trying to make a deal with me for his release. Made all sorts of promises about my safety, references to immunity in the future. But he didn’t say anything about having people with him that would be coming or that I should get in touch with for ‘help.’ All he seemed to be aiming for was his release or access to a phone. So he might have contacts in the area, but Henry’s right that if he had any real authority behind him here, he would have tried to use that to his advantage.”

In his hands, Henry watched his Dad breathe deeply, his head tilted forward, hair obscuring most of his face. Papa was rubbing his back soothingly, a small, smug grin on his face. “You see, Will? The situation is entirely under control. We need not make any rash decisions yet. Here,” Papa gently took Dad’s hand and curled his fingers around the phone. “Ask what you need to ease your mind. I’ll get dressed.”

“’Bout time,” Dad grumbled, glowering at Papa out of the corner of his eye. The angle the phone was being held in now was weird; for the most part, Henry could only see the ceiling, still vaguely resembling popcorn, and up his Dad’s nose.

Trying not to chew his lip as he waited for his Dad to say anything else, Henry paced the sitting room again. Dad remained silent, breathing slowly, his eyes darting back and forth as they likely tracked Papa moving about their suite.

It was his third or fourth lap when Dad said suddenly, “Hand me over to Abigail.”

Henry turned sharply in place to do just that, dropping the phone in his sister’s outstretched hand like the device was going to burn him. The commanding tone his father had been using off and on during the conversation was making Henry feel like he had nettles under his skin. Deciding that staying out of sight was probably in his best interest for the moment, Henry grabbed Anna from Abigail’s loose, single-arm hold.

“Just gonna take her—” Henry jerked his head in the vague direction of the playroom where Luca should hopefully still be drawing.

“Sure, okay,” Abigail said with a small wave of her hand, turning her attention to the phone. They had just started talking about the specifics of her conversation with the agent when Henry left the room, hoisting Anna as high into his arms as he could. It was certainly more awkward to try and carry her around now than it had been just a few months ago, but it was still manageable. He could even tote around Luca if he really wanted to, although only on his back, and probably only because Luca was a scrawny little thing.

A new dread filled Henry as he walked down the hall, and he nearly dropped his sister onto the carpet, overcome with relief upon finding nothing terribly demonic on the playroom’s television. His brother had apparently changed the channel to something focused on wildlife, putting it on mute, and seated himself at the squat activity table a few feet away. Luca wasn’t paying attention to the screen, too focused on fiercely scribbling away with a tiny nub of a red crayon. They went through a lot of those.

In the corner of the room by a large window, Henry plopped Anna down inside the confines of her playpen, a small gated off enclosure filled with stuffed animals three times her size and a veritable mountain of stacking blocks. These days she was more interested in smashing them together as loud as she was able than actually stacking them, but Henry had become numb to the sound ages ago.

Upon commencement of The Clacking, Luca swiveled his head to where Anna was banging away to her heart’s content then to where Henry was flopping onto the ground next to him, legs folded and arms draped across his knees.

If Luca was surprised he was no longer alone in the room, he didn’t show it. “Are Daddy and Papa almost home?”

“Not yet, Lucky,” Henry told him. He leaned forward a little to get a look at what his brother had been drawing, but Luca quickly shielded his work with his body.

“When?” he demanded.

Henry shrugged and readjusted to recline back on his arms, head tipped back with a long sigh. Quite suddenly, he was realizing most of his body felt kind of sore. He tried to make a mental note to stretch more in the future, but his thoughts felt fuzzy and untenable at the moment. He might as well toss his mental notebook in a fire; it was rapidly becoming useless to him.

When Luca remained silent, Henry lifted his head with considerable effort to see his brother was shooting him a deadly glare, strangely juxtaposed with a jutted, almost trembling bottom lip. The pout and the daggers were a bit of a conflicting message, Henry thought, unless that message was, “I’m about to whine at you until you die.” Which… seemed possible, with Luca.

“They’re leaving really soon,” Henry offered, hoping that was enough to stave off his demise. “They’ll likely be in the car and heading home before they’re even done talking with Abi.”

“Good,” Luca sniffed. “Are you in trouble?”

“Why would I be in trouble?”

Luca’s withering stare reminded Henry too strongly of their Dad, and he couldn’t quite hold back his cringe. “A little. Probably.”

His brother deeply contemplated Henry’s predicament for a moment before reaching inside the built-in storage of the table and pulling out a blank piece of paper and a box of the colored pencils Henry favored. These he slid closer to where Henry was half-laying on the ground.

At Henry’s raised brow, Luca turned back to his own paper, resuming his frantic, sweeping motions with his red crayon. “Maybe if you draw a picture too, you’ll make them happy and be in less trouble.”

“Couldn’t make Dad any madder, I guess,” Henry grumbled as he heaved himself to a more upright position. Luca gave up trying to keep Henry’s prying eyes from his art—or maybe he just forgot he’d wanted to prevent him from seeing it in the first place—and seemed content to completely ignore Henry’s existence now that his sage advice had been dispensed, trusting that it would be followed.

As he shook out the pencils and scooted closer to the table, Henry stole a quick glance at Luca’s picture. At first, Henry thought it was just the standard preschooler family portrait of the six of them, stick-bodied with giant heads, the only differences being their height, hair, and Dad’s glasses. In this one, however, the ground was absolutely littered with dozens of other bodies, all vague and generic looking, with more falling from the sky alongside a torrent of red. Their little family all bore identical, comically large grins, even Anna, amid the downfall of blood and corpses. If Luca kept at it, though, Henry thought not even that much would be discernible under the solid layer of crimson crayon.

Henry tapped a regular pencil he’d dug out from the table’s storage compartment against his paper, thinking about what it was he wanted to draw. He was far past the age to be drawing happy suns, fluffy trees, and stick families, especially with his regular art lessons, so instead of attempting to doodle a bit of emotional manipulation, Henry set to work sketching out an image that had started to form in his mind earlier in the day.

He drew a faceless figure kneeling in the woods. The figure’s body was tightly bound with police tape, so constrictive it cut deeply into the flesh, meat and skin spilling out over the edges. The ends of the tape stretched out to the surrounding trees, pulled taught to hold the body in place, their tail ends fluttering in an unseen wind among the branches. Perched on the figure’s neck and shoulders was an enormous black stone, completely smooth. Henry tried to apply some of the art theory his Papa had taught him recently concerning light and shading to make the stone appear glossy, almost like an eye, but he couldn’t quite manage the effect. Instead of dwelling on it, he moved onto the head, whose position he changed three times before deciding to have it droop and hang down, severed from the body and connected only via the thinnest line he could draw while still being visible. He imagined it was fishing wire.

Satisfied that the image had been manifested as well as it could be with his current skill level, Henry lost himself in adding little details and coloring. If the shiny, wet effect wasn’t an option for the stone, he decided to fill it in completely, wanting it to be as black a void as possible. In the end, the stone did end up glossy from how thoroughly he colored in the paper, which was a pleasing enough result. He painstakingly wrote the tiny text on the tape and colored the bark of the dead trees and splatters of blood where it amused him. Just as he was adding in mud around the figure’s foot, he heard Luca make a noise next to him.

“What?” he asked without looking up, switching to draw a knot in the wood of one of the foreground trees.

“Who’s that?”

“No one in particular.” At Luca’s repeated, disgruntled little noise, Henry glanced up at him. “Is it bothering you? You told me to draw something.”

“Something _good,_ Hanni!”

_Well, that was mean._ Henry looked down at his picture and regarded it critically. His grasp of perspective wasn’t great yet, and the proportions on the body were probably off. It didn’t look all that realistic, but he thought it was _okay,_ at least.

“You drew bodies too,” Henry groused, nudging his brother.

“Yeah, but they don’t look real!”

That almost sounded like a compliment. “…Thank you?”

_“And,”_ Luca said with a snooty upturn of his nose, “mine doesn’t have any blood!”

Henry looked pointedly between Luca’s drawing and the microscopic remnant of the red crayon. He picked it up and placed it on the largest blob of red on the drawing in front of Luca. “Then what’s all that?”

“Ketchup.”

Henry was stunned into silence for the briefest of moments before he doubled over in laughter, nearly hitting his head on the edge of the table. If he wasn’t careful, he was either going to strain something or give himself a concussion before the day was out, but the idea of Luca repeating that with a straight face to their Papa was too much for him to hold it in.

If he didn’t already, Dad was going to regret ever secretly taking Henry and Luca to McDonald’s.

Luca’s repeated, increasingly testy demand to know _what’s so funny_ finally snapped Henry out of his hysterics. He reached out and ruffled Luca’s pale hair, the action too quick for his brother to dodge. It finally dawned on Henry then that Luca was _still_ in his pajamas from his nap earlier, and Henry was of the opinion that any potential mark against him was too great a risk today. He’d begun to shakily rise to his feet to return Anna to Abigail—or fetch Abigail to watch over her, he had to see first how much his arms felt like cooperating—when the elder sister in question appeared in the doorway.

“Managed to talk Dad down from his salt-the-earth exit strategy,” Abigail said, smirking as she leaned against the wall. “He was seriously planning on packing up as much as we could carry and burning down the house. We didn’t even go that far in France.”

“I don’t think Agent Crawford paid a personal house call to the place in France,” replied Henry.

“True, he never got that close,” she said with a thoughtful nod. “But it still isn’t the end of the world, and I told him so. Between me and Pops, he eventually gave in and said he’d see how bad things are for himself before he made any drastic decisions.”

“That’s… good.” Henry stood awkwardly, searching for something to say. “Should we make dinner for the kids? Anna hasn’t eaten yet.”

“You know you fall under the heading of _The Kids,_ right Henry?”

With a laugh, Abigail crossed the room to where their baby sister was clamoring for her attention, standing eagerly at the gate and calling out to her. “Bibi!” If she was talking, Henry supposed Anna was finally, fully awake.

After picking their sister up, Abigail thought for a moment before grinning a little. “I can take care of Anna, but everyone else can wait. Pops will probably want to make something for us all anyway when he gets home, don’t you think? And it’s been so long since Jack’s had his cooking, it’d be a shame to deny him the opportunity.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to be rude,” Henry agreed.

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  As one of my betas pointed out, if Henry and Luca attended school, Will and Hannibal would be called in... so very often. 
> 
> Next update is almost entirely Henry & Luca brotherly fluff.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose) and [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry tries to relax by spending some quality time with his little brother.

Once Abigail left with their baby sister, Henry crouched down next to Luca, looking at the new picture he’d begun. It was the duck pond, which Henry suspected had more to do with the shortage of red crayon than any desire to draw lumpy waterfowl on Luca’s part.

_ Ketchup.  _ Henry had to suppress another giggle fit remembering that single word. Laughter swallowed, he nudged his brother gently, so as not to jostle his arm and ruin the picture. “You heard that, right?” 

“No?” Luca’s nose wrinkled, irritated as always that listening had been expected of him. 

“Abi said Dad and Papa are on their way.”

_ This _ peaked his interest, of course, and Luca whipped his head to the side dangerously fast, making Henry worry he was going to snap it from sheer momentum alone. “Really?” he gasped. 

One would think their fathers had been gone for years, off fighting in some perilous war, instead of staying in a specially accommodated suite for the last two and a half days. 

“Yes, really,” Henry confirmed, not rolling his eyes even a little bit. He reached forward and plucked at the sleeve of Luca’s blue, footie pajamas. “Do you think Papa will be happy to see you’ve spent all afternoon without getting dressed?” 

Luca looked down at what he was wearing like it was the first time he’d seen the garment in his life, face equal parts confusion and horror. “Oh no!” he squeaked. 

“We’ve got plenty of time until they get home. Want to go change?” At Luca’s enthusiastic nod, Henry rose and held a hand out to his brother, helping him to his feet and leading him upstairs to his bedroom. 

Luca was at an age where he was finicky about when, where, and for what he’d accept assistance. Up onto and off furniture, standing, and navigating the stairs? Sure. But Henry wisely paused in Luca’s doorway as his brother rushed to his dresser and yanked open drawers at random. If Henry tried to help in  _ this _ process without first being prompted, he’d only get bitten for his efforts. 

“This?” Luca asked, holding a shirt upside down in front of his body for Henry’s approval. Even the wrong way up, Henry would recognize those monstrosities anywhere, eye-searingly colorful characters from one of Luca’s favorite programs. 

“How about something else?” he suggested, holding back a look of revulsion. 

Even though he made a pouty face, Luca dropped the shirt to resume digging through his drawer, nearly disappearing into it. Henry wasn’t sure what worried him more: the dresser finally toppling from the added weight and crushing his little brother or Luca somehow getting sucked into its depths, never to be seen again, lost in some forgotten land with dinosaurs and all the world’s missing socks. Given that he could scarcely see his brother’s fuzzy feet anymore, both seemed equally likely. 

Thankfully, Luca emerged again, clutching black fabric in his fists and breathing hard. Was there even any  _ air _ in the dresser? His hair was even more mussed, desperately in need of a comb, which Henry supposed was the next order of business. 

“This?” 

Luca held out the article he’d found, a slightly wrinkled button-up—with fake snap buttons, if Henry remembered correctly. He wasn’t entirely sure how that shirt had ended up in the dresser instead of hanging up in the closet, but it would do. 

“Sure. Find some nice pants to go with it.” 

An idea suddenly brightened Luca’s entire face, and he let go of the shirt, ripping into another drawer to find his own idea of what  _ nice _ was. “Are we dressing up? Can I wear fancy shoes?” he asked, dragging out a dark pair of slacks which were  _ technically _ for outdoor play—but they weren’t shorts, which was good enough for Henry.

“What fancy shoes?” 

“You know!” Luca insisted, struggling with the zipper on his pajamas. If it took him much longer, Henry was going to have to go in there at risk of his fingers. 

“I really don’t.”

Finally, Luca figured out the contraption and wiggled free, leaving his pajamas in a pile on the floor. Henry eyed the growing lump of clothes with annoyance but decided he’d rather not push his luck today. He waited patiently while Luca got dressed, who managed the pants by himself and precisely none of the shirt’s buttons.

“Help?” Luca asked, flapping the arm sleeves at him.

Judging it safe enough, Henry went to his brother and swiftly snapped all the buttons together. He was just doing the ones on Luca’s cuffs when he asked, “So, which shoes were you talking about, again?” 

Cuffs secure, Luca ran to his closet, sliding the doors open in a flurry of movement. Moments later, he was rushing back, holding up a pair of sneakers. Before Henry could ask what was so special about them, Luca smacked the bottoms together with glee, inches from Henry’s face—only avoiding smashing his nose between them due to his limited reach—and temporarily blinded him with an unexpected, flashing light show. 

Henry bit back a curse and leaned against the dresser until the spots in his vision cleared. 

It was a few moments before he realized Luca had taken his silent scowling for a rejection of his  _ fancy shoe _ request. “Go for it,” Henry groaned, rubbing at his eyes. “Just try not to do that directly in my face again, okay Lucky? Kind of hurt.” 

The nickname did much to wipe the dejected look off of his brother’s face, who nodded and then plopped down on the floor to start putting them on. Henry had to stall him for a moment for socks, but otherwise, Luca managed the task by himself. The Velcro helped. 

After that, it took little effort to herd Luca into the bathroom to get his face washed and hair tamed, especially when every stomp erupted the area around his little feet into a flickering rainbow, planting a permanent, delighted grin on his face. 

Luca followed him like a firefly, lighting up everywhere he went as Henry made his way into his own bedroom and found something decent for himself to wear. In his closet, he lingered briefly on some of the tailor-made suits hanging inside. He didn’t wear them often, usually only at Papa’s behest during certain outings. It was a tempting idea, but ultimately one he had to reject, as Henry was fairly certain he had outgrown all of them. No doubt Papa would be taking him into the city to have another fitted soon enough. But even if one the suits did still fit, it would only come off as a desperate attempt to get into his father’s good graces. He opted to just match Luca instead, who was marching in a focused circle around his room, giggling to himself as the light from his shoes bounced off the walls and furniture. 

Clad in all black—which seemed appropriate, given death was sure to visit the household that evening—Henry made an attempt at brushing his hair. When nothing he did made his mess of curls cooperate, he blew an irritated raspberry at his reflection and gave up. This was as presentable as he was going to get.

Even so, when he turned to start ushering Luca back down the hall, his brother looked up at him and said, “You look rather handsome.” 

“Uh,” Henry stalled, caught off guard as he usually was, hearing Papa’s words out of Luca’s mouth. “Thank you.” 

“Now you’re supposed to say it back,” Luca whined, expression souring. 

“Oh, of course.” Henry leaned closer, gravely taking Luca’s face into both of his hands, tilting his head in various directions as he hummed in consideration. He came to his conclusion quickly. “Eh, you’re okay.” 

His hands dropped away before Luca could swat at him. “Hanni!” 

“Sorry, sorry!” Henry said, dancing away from Luca, who stomped after him. His incessantly luminous footwear made it difficult to take Luca’s ire seriously. “You’re beautiful!”

“No!”

“Gorgeous!” Henry tried again, laughing as he headed toward the stairs. 

“Hanni!”

Not wanting to risk getting pushed, Henry grabbed onto the banister and watched Luca march up to him. “Stunning? Lovely? Cute? Adorable? Dazzling?  _ Dashing?” _

At each attempt, Luca would growl or take a swing at him, which Henry allowed to slowly fell him until he was crumpled at the top of the stairs, one arm still hanging onto the railing. When he’d run out of synonyms, he held up his remaining hand, staving off another attack. “You win, you win! Lucky, you are the  _ most handsomest ever.” _

“That’s better,” Luca sniffed before allowing himself to be taken by the hand and lead back downstairs. After the last step, Luca yanked his hand away and almost started to dart down the hall to return to the playroom. He stopped, noticing Henry hadn’t moved from the landing. “Are you coming?” 

He… shouldn’t, should he? Abigail was likely in the kitchen, still feeding Anna. Luca could look after himself well enough, but no one was watching the  _ FBI agent _ in the other room. Even though, logically, Henry knew there was nothing the man could do and nowhere he could go in his current state, it still itched under Henry’s skin that he would be slacking if he slunk away to go doodle, of all things. 

Because what if one of the knots  _ did _ finally give? An alpha, any alpha, was always stronger than they looked. And this one looked pretty strong as it was. If there was any leeway at all, he could easily slip free, catch Abigail unawares in the kitchen. Maybe Henry should drug him again, just to be safe? But then who knows how long it would be until it wore off a second time, and his fathers would certainly want to be able to interrogate the man was soon as they were home. Henry could only imagine the state Dad would work himself into if he had to  _ sit around and wait _ without the ability to get answers. 

The intensity of Henry’s stare could have burned holes into the wall separating him from the agent in the other room, a million thoughts whirling in his head. He jolted when Luca suddenly tugged on his sleeve to get his attention. 

“Is Abi done talking to the bad man?” 

Henry blinked for a moment, reorienting himself from his mental spiraling. “Yeah, she is. We’re leaving him alone until Dad and Papa get home.” 

“Can we color in there while we wait? I wanna see Daddy and Papa when they get home!” Luca was grinning at him, bouncing up and down on his feet, lighting up the whole hallway. 

Either Luca was serious in wanting to be nearby when their parents returned or he had figured out a clever way to stay close to Henry, who was being glaringly obvious about where his mind was. Henry decided the motive didn’t matter. “Sure,” he said. “So long as you promise not to make a mess.” 

“I won’t. I swear!” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Henry said. And he would. Henry had enough coming down on his head today without adding stained carpet to the mix. Further stained, anyway,  _ crap. _ Shaking away the thought, he added, “Need help carrying everything?” 

“Yes please!”

_ Today’s just full of surprises,  _ Henry thought, marveling at a  _ please _ entirely of his brother’s own volition as he followed Luca down the hall.  _ At least some of them are nice. _

Ultimately, Luca decided they needed several pounds of paper and an entire bucket worth of crayons, colored pencils, markers of varying quality, and glittery gel pens. They didn’t normally keep those stored in buckets, of course; Henry had to wait while Luca upended nearly every box he could find into the bright blue plastic container. At some point, Henry was tempted to ask if it was enough yet, but in his digging, Luca managed to find the box of expensive, fine-tipped markers that Henry had lost weeks ago. Papa had bought him a second set, naturally, but now they could only be taken out during lessons and were kept in his study. 

How they ended up wedged  _ behind the television _ was anyone’s guess—although Henry had a rather specific suspicion—but luckily with that last, fortuitous find, Luca was satisfied with their artistic provisions. “Okay, done!” he panted after struggling to push the bucket a few feet closer to Henry. 

Looking between the loaded down container and the massive ream of paper on the table, Henry asked his brother, “And what are you going to carry?” Because the responsibility of the heavier burdens was a battle he’d lost the moment he’d made his offer.  

“Um,” Luca seemed stumped he’d have to carry anything at all and quickly scanned his table and the nearby shelves. “These!” he called triumphantly after a few moments of searching. Hugged to his chest was a tenuously held handful of erasers, safety scissors, and a bottle of glue. 

Henry hadn’t expected their evening to be quite so crafty, but if Luca wanted to get a bit more industrious with his gifts to their fathers, Henry wasn’t going to argue. He debated how to hold both the paper and the bucket before just carelessly dumping the former into the latter, which barely fit. Altogether, the entire thing weighed… considerably more than an adult male arm, Cephy,  _ or _ Anna. Not quite combined, but close enough that the strain had Henry scrambling to remember the proper way to breathe during exertion before he was able to lift the thing from the ground. 

Maybe he should push it down the hall instead. Where had Luca left the wagon he sometimes used to drag Cephy around? 

Just as he was seriously debating hunting for it, given how incredibly difficult walking only a few feet turned out to be, Luca rushed up beside him—dropping his cargo into the bucket as well because  _ of course he would— _ and placed his hands on the bottom of the bucket. “I’ll help!” he said, shuffling along at Henry’s slow pace. 

Luca’s assistance did precisely nothing, but the pleased grin on his face meant Henry couldn’t bring himself to tell him so. Instead he focused on breathing and stopping every so often as they made their way down the hall. The added danger of crushing his brother’s tiny hands should he lose his grip at least aided in Henry’s concentration on the task at hand, although he was forced to wonder just what Luca had put in the damned bucket when he wasn’t looking. There was no way paper and pencils weighed  _ this much.  _

When they were nearly to the sitting room, Henry’s arms had been reduced to nigh-useless noodles, and his back ached terribly.  _ Close enough,  _ he decided. The next time they placed down their burden, Henry flopped to the ground and shoved it the rest of the way, knowing he looked beyond silly as he did so, sluggishly shoving a bucket across the carpet. Once it was most of the way into the room, Henry steeled himself for one last burst of effort and carefully dragged the coffee table next to the agent’s chair toward the front of the couch. It was just high and wide enough to function as a workspace for the two of them if they sat on the floor. Once the table was in place, Luca wasted no time in plopping down and digging out his chosen supplies. 

Henry took a moment to simply stand there and mostly  _ wheeze. _ Every part of him was either shaking or felt like it was on fire. Papa had suggested, some months ago, that Henry start training his body as well as his mind, and he had never regretted dismissing the idea more than he did right now.  

He also regretted not trying to curtail Luca’s crazed hoarding of possibly every coloring utensil in the house. And maybe some bricks, Henry suspected. 

Easing his tired body to the carpet, Henry relished in the comfort of leaning against the soft couch, eyes closed and head tipped back in weary relief for several minutes. When he felt rested enough to sit up, he almost jumped upon opening his eyes, not having expected to see Agent Crawford looking back at him from the center of the room. 

He was stopped short of thinking of anything to say to the man by Luca placing some paper in front of him on the coffee table, along with those long-lost markers he had gawked at. 

“Thanks, Luca,” Henry said tiredly. His brother didn’t answer, having already returned his attention to his new work, a rather flattering, if distorted, portrait of Cephy. He’d even carefully written her full name of Encephalitis along the bottom of the paper, spaced out in big, blocky letters. 

Opting for a pencil again, Henry started to sketch nothing in particular, his mind as blank as his body was sore. First, it was random, tenuously connected pairs of wings, then a vague trio of animalistic heads. Knowing he was being watched compelled him to also add eyes, some to the wings, some floating nearby. Halfway through fleshing out the second head—which had begun to take the shape of a wolf—Luca leaned against his shoulder, crowding closer to get a look at the paper. “Is that an angel?”

Henry tilted his head and stared at his drawing, with its wings and eyes and inhuman faces, realizing that was indeed what it was, or at least, Henry’s fuzzy recollection of one according to scripture. “I guess it is,” he said, erasing the more canine snout he’d been working on to replace it with a lion’s. He seemed to remember lion heads being common, anyway. 

“I like that better,” said Luca, sitting back up. “Less blood.” 

“Maybe all the red in my picture was ketchup too, Lucky,” Henry teased. He reached for one of the nice markers and began a slow outline of his sketch, heads now complete. His lines weren’t going to be especially neat, given the faint, exhausted trembling of his limbs at the moment, but with care, they’d be okay. 

“Nooo,” Luca said with an eye-roll. “Ketchup doesn’t leak from the  _ inside! _ You add it to the  _ outside!  _ Duh!” 

“Sure,” Henry agreed easily enough, since that was technically true, he supposed. He mentally cursed himself for all the details on the wings, his hand starting to cramp on top of everything else. “Why would bodies be covered in ketchup, though?” 

Luca shrugged, filling in one of Cephy’s ears with an obnoxiously sparkly gel pen. Her inner ear wasn’t  _ that _ pink. “’Cause Papa’s gonna eat them all up.” 

Henry blinked. While  _ that _ aspect of their family wasn’t as much of a secret from Luca as Dad likely hoped, that was about as blatant as his brother had ever spoken of it. In his peripheral vision, Henry saw the agent thrashing a bit against his restraints but couldn’t be sure if that was a new development from overhearing this recent bit of conversation or if he’s just been flailing about occasionally unprompted, like an air-drowning fish on a dock giving a half-hearted flop every few heartbeats. 

Returning his attention to Luca, Henry couldn’t help but ask, “Have you ever seen Papa eat something with ketchup? Ever?” 

Luca seemed to consider for a moment and paused in his coloring of the sky above the monstrously glittery version of Cephy he’d drawn. “I think so?” 

“When?”

“Last week! He poured some red stuff—”

“That was a sauce, Luca. Like a red wine reduction or something.  _ Definitely _ not ketchup.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Henry nodded, biting his tongue to hold back a laugh. 

“Oh.” Henry had no idea what to do with the sad expression that was overcoming Luca’s face when his brother suddenly shrugged and declared, “Then it’s not ketchup. It’s, uh, red wine… what was it?”

“Reduction.”

“Reduction,” Luca repeated slowly, probably committing the word to memory.

“So it’s raining a red wine reduction in your picture?” 

At Luca’s cheery confirmation of “Yep!” Henry finally let out his laugh and patted his brother on the shoulder before returning to his outlining. The new explanation for Luca’s drawing amused him to no end, the macabre covered with a veil of elegance, something he thought Papa would appreciate when he saw it later. 

Henry had moved on to carefully tracing the lion’s mane, which was a bit scraggly if he was being honest, since it’d been converted from a wolf’s scruff, when Abigail walked in from the dining room. 

“Wow, you guys got all set up in here, huh?” She didn’t seem particularly fussed about the rearranging of the furniture, although she did raise an eyebrow at the overflowing bucket on the floor. “And look at you two! You look so nice!”

“Thank you!” said Luca, looking up briefly to project a proud, grateful smile, all his little teeth—gap included—on display.  

“You’re very welcome, Lucky.” To Henry, she asked, “Am I to assume I’ve been relieved of guarding duties for now?” 

“Sure, we’ve got it handled in here. They’ll probably call when they’re close, won’t they?” He capped his pen before he forgot, not wanting to accidentally leave droplets of ink on his work. 

Abigail laughed, hoisting Anna slightly higher on her hip. “Since Dad insisted on driving, Papa’s been texting me every so often.” 

“That bad?” 

She came closer, ignoring how the agent jerked as she passed his chair, and dug her phone out of her pocket. Tapping at the screen, she knelt before the coffee table and brought up a picture to show Henry. 

It was a blurry photo of the speedometer, along with an even blurrier hand, likely Dad’s as he swatted at the phone. It was hard to make out, but the red line looked  _ much _ too far to the right to be within legal limits. Under the picture was a text from Papa that read, “If you have ever been so inclined, now might be a good time to pay for our safe arrival.” 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  First off, sorry for the missed update on Tuesday! If you've ambled over to my tumblr, you might've seen me complaining about the trouble I've been having with the edits lately. We're getting into the bulk of the fic that I wrote during NaNoWriMo, so it's requiring a bit more work to fix up. I might have to skip an update here or there to give the chapters the time they need for a proper rewrite, but there'll always be at least a weekly update no matter what. 
> 
> Next chapter is an introspective one for our little budding serial killer.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry needs a quiet moment to himself to think through some things.

Another picture arrived while Henry had been laughing at the message; this time, the image was perfectly clear. Dad was hunched over, forehead resting just above the horn, his arms wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. Even though the picture was still, Henry swore he could see his father’s rapid, shallow breathing as he tried to remain calm enough to drive them home safely and not wrap Papa’s car around a tree. The whole scene was bathed in a faint, red glow from the too-bright stoplight.

Henry’s throat suddenly felt incredibly dry, and he had a great deal of trouble swallowing. Silent, he handed the phone back to Abigail, whose amused expression melted away as she took the phone back to see the new picture. She sank back on her heels, her entire posture deflated. “Poor Dad,” she sighed. “He’s a wreck.” 

“Yeah,” Henry agreed, trying to ignore the prickling, buzzing sensation that was spreading throughout his limbs, gradually replacing the dull soreness from before. He watched as Abigail awkwardly thumbed out a response to Papa, struggling with reaching the device with both hands when one arm was still hooked around a baby trying her damnedest to slam her tiny palms onto the screen. 

Once she was finished with the text, Abigail dropped the phone onto the coffee table and stood, walking around it to seat herself on the couch near Henry. “It’s going to be okay,” she said, leaning forward to place a gentle hand on his shoulder, her knee pressing into his side. “They’ll know what to do. And Dad will feel better once he’s home and can see for himself that everything is fine and we’re all safe and unharmed.” 

Somehow, that didn’t make  _ him _ feel any better. 

He knew what would, though. It would take no effort at all for Henry to turn toward his sister, to the calming presence of a loving—and loved—omega, like a flower toward the sun. There were only a few inches between him and relief from the sudden roiling feeling deep in his guts, like a cluster of eels twisting around, threading themselves through the slots of his ribs to squeeze all the air from his lungs. 

Henry had known his Dad would be upset by their family being discovered—of  _ course _ he would be. Henry had seen it, had heard his reaction already through their video call, but it hadn’t really hit him until now just how bad it was, just how much he let his father down. Some primal part of Henry was reeling from knowing he’d caused this kind of distress to his Dad, the most important alpha in his life. 

Henry dug his nails into his palm, unable to get the picture out of his mind. That terrible feeling was getting more intense by the second. If he didn’t do something soon, he was going to upset Luca and Anna, which he would not be able to handle on top of everything else.

The simplest solution would be to climb up onto the couch, seek comfort and balance from his sister. She was  _ right there _ and wouldn’t object in the slightest, never complaining when either he or Luca would cling to her during frightening storms or scary movies. His body rose from the floor without his input, apparently well on the way to do just that except…

Except Henry didn’t want to. He didn’t  _ want _ to be externally calmed, to have this feeling simply erased via omegan pheromones. Papa had said once that he didn’t have these sorts of responses anymore, hadn’t he? Henry couldn’t expect Papa or Abigail to always be available to him whenever he got uncomfortable. He should be able to handle it on his own. 

“Henry?” 

He let out a small breath and stepped around the coffee table, giving Abigail the most natural smile he could muster. “I need some air, I think. I know I said we were going to take over guarding for you, but for a minute? I just have to—” 

“Sure, whatever you need,” Abigail said, voice far too understanding. She scooted on the couch to be closer to Luca, probably to keep him from jumping up and following after Henry. “Stay in the back, alright? Out of sight of the road.”

Henry nodded his thanks and swiftly left the room, heading straight for the back door in the kitchen and rushing through it. As soon as that first gulp of air hit his lungs, something in Henry finally broke. He thought it was lucky he’d remembered to close the door behind him before he fell to his knees onto the back porch, gasping for air he couldn’t seem to draw in fast enough. 

Everything ached and burned, his lungs in particular feeling like they were on fire despite the fall chill. He couldn’t concentrate on anything past all the swirling thoughts in his head, of the sad, near crumpled form of his father, the worry in his voice, and the way he shook and growled and yelled during the video call. 

Because his rapid, unfulfilling breaths weren’t slowing at all, Henry covered his mouth and nose, willing his body and mind to calm itself without anyone else around to soothe him. He vaguely recalled being told about this technique for hyperventilating but could not remember who had taught him. Abigail, maybe. She sometimes shared interesting facts with him as they came up during her studies. 

After a few seconds, he removed his hands, only to replace them when he wasn’t satisfied with the frantic movement of his chest. It took a few repetitions, but eventually Henry was able to take his hands away and breathe freely. Filling his lungs slowly with cold air still burned something fierce, but the hurt was centralized there, not spreading out through his entire body. 

He was able to rise, albeit on shaky legs, and hop off the porch to walk around, although to what purpose or destination, he didn’t know. A few hundred yards off, the backyard faded into the edge of a forest that stretched for miles, most of which resided within the confines of their property. It was tempting to wander out there, get lost among the trees. If he walked for long enough, he’d reach the chain-link fence that defined the borders of their home. He remembered it seeming impossibly tall when he was younger and was awed each time he saw his fathers hop over it with ease. 

He wondered if he could manage the feat now, wanted to go and try just to give his body something to do, an activity he didn’t have to think about beyond the pure mechanics of it. That would take him too far from the house, however, and would definitely bring him within sight of the road that led to their driveway, which Abigail had told him not to do. 

With his luck today, Henry suspected he’d actually end up getting lost if he went exploring. Rather than risk it, he ambled along the side of the house until he came upon the basement entrance. A quick tug confirmed that it was locked. Henry assumed it was typical for people to keep spare keys hidden nearby for front doors, maybe back doors too, but he didn’t think many had cause for emergency basement keys. 

Henry poked around the small garden until he found its hiding place, which wasn’t under a flower pot or taped to a windowsill, but behind a false piece of siding, nestled between a pair of sentry rose bushes. 

To prevent getting any dirt on his pants, Henry did his best to crouch and sidle closer to the wall, cursing how much shorter his arm span was than his fathers’. His size did prove advantageous in avoiding getting too close to the thorns, at least. By the time Henry had managed to retrieve the key and reattach the siding, he walked away with only a handful of scratches, easily hidden when he rolled his sleeves back down. 

So long as he put the key back later, Henry was confident no one would know of his minor trespass. After unlocking the doors, he hurriedly made his way down the stairs, ignoring the first overhead light in favor of the one placed directly above the metal table in the center of the room. He’d been able to navigate in near complete darkness easily enough, but now with that bright light on, he found the corners of the basement were cast into nearly impenetrable blackness, making Henry feel like he and the table were the only things that existed in an endless void. 

He ran a finger along the chrome surface in front of him, marveling at how clean his fathers kept it. In a fit of curiosity, Henry heaved himself up onto the table, which was no easy feat with his current level of exhaustion. Once he boosted himself up, he unintentionally slid across the sleek metal, nearly falling off the opposite end. Thankfully his hands found purchase on the sides, stabilizing him long enough for Henry to settle and lay flat on his back. He carefully inched down so that his legs could aimlessly dangle off the end. 

It wasn’t comfortable. He hadn’t expected it to be, of course, but it was surprising to him just how unpleasant it was, the hard surface against his back coupled with the irritatingly bright light above him. Henry had to close his eyes against its harshness, spots dancing behind his eyelids while his vision readjusted. When that didn’t help, he turned on his side, facing the couch he usually occupied while down in this space. It was there, he was sure, but it was totally lost to the blackness now that he’d been blinded by the light. 

He supposed that answered a question he’d had for years now. When others had been strapped to this table, they never seemed to comment on or acknowledge his presence, not unless he clearly stepped into view or one of his fathers addressed him. If their frightened minds ever thought to do so, they probably could have sensed him nearby, but it was likely his parents’ scents would have concealed him anyway. 

The metal Henry was lying on was shockingly cold, freezing Henry even through his clothes. When he’d touched it in the past, it’d always been warm, heated by a body placed upon it for hours or by freshly spilled blood. 

Now it made Henry violently shiver, his shaking rattling the table, but he made no move to get up yet. 

Instead, he was trying to bring to mind the night of his birthday, when he’d been permitted to finally make his own cuts into living flesh—he didn’t count the times he’d helped with harvesting in the past, even if the bodies had technically still been alive at the time. Of course, Papa had shadowed his every move that night, something both his fathers had repeatedly assured him was  _ fine. _ The next morning, they’d sat him down and told him how proud they were, praised the steadiness of his hand even though he felt like he’d been trembling the entire time. 

The realization hit him, then, that had he not drugged Agent Crawford so quickly, he could have frozen today as well. It made him feel sick to even think about it, that his instincts could have paralyzed him before he’d been able to act, to safeguard his family. 

He knew it was pointless to lay here in the basement, fretting over physiological responses he had no control over, especially at his age. It wasn’t his fault, and yet it still tasted like  _ failure.  _ Henry wondered often since that night how Papa had numbed himself to these particular instincts. If he had numbed himself to any others in the process. 

Henry had never given it much thought as to what he might present as later in life—he knew his fathers’ affection for him would never change, no matter what ended up being—but for the first time, he felt something like dread at what the future held. It was already  _ so _ difficult to push past these reactions. The thought of never being able to grow out of them, so to speak, was a frustrating thought. 

But no matter what happened to him in a few years, Henry had to deal with his own mind and body betraying him  _ now.  _ He’d calmed, somewhat, out on the porch and while he lay there like the dead, but he still felt the desperate panic clawing at him in the back of his mind, relentless and pulsing like a rotten tooth. 

At least it felt more manageable here, in the cold basement, than it had up in the house—the exact opposite of last time.

He tried to remember more specifics about how it’d felt before, the way his excitement and giddy nerves had been replaced, bit by bit, with every inhale. He’d wanted to shrink away, to hide from the angry, strange alpha, a feeling he knew was going to happen but rendered him helpless anyway. Thinking back, he recalled how foul and bitter the air had become. Fear, in general, was a bitter sort of scent; it had its own sliding scale of intensity. At its absolute worst, it was not unlike rancid meat. 

The room hadn’t had that spoiled smell, not at first. Henry felt his muscles tense, remembering his fumble with the knife and the man’s tirade that followed. There’d been no decay in the air then, just anger, swelling and filling up the room to the point Henry felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

And then his father was at his side, and everything had been all right again. 

It hadn’t been the yelling that had gotten to him; Henry had outgrown being affected by that long ago. Raised voices, snarling, growling—none of that bothered him anymore, not after sitting in the basement night after night for his lessons. There had been a steady progression to get him to that point. First it was merely bodies, freshly expired, allowing him to get used to their stench and stiffness. Then they were still alive… but only just. Gradually the process of death was rewound. They were less wounded, less toyed with, more awake, and more afraid. More angry.

Luca, for all his macabre artistry, had no interest in the goings-on of the basement, not like Henry at his age, but Henry imagined that if he ever did, he’d follow the same steps. 

The transition from unconscious to awake, enough to holler and jerk around, had been a difficult one for Henry some years ago. It was only mildly embarrassing in hindsight. He remembered seeking refuge behind Dad, clinging to his pant leg desperately after the first real scream. 

“He’s still too young for this,” Dad had said, attempting to cover Henry’s ears for him. 

Papa had ignored him and crouched to be level with Henry. “Do you want to stop?” he’d asked, after removing Dad’s hands. It’d been a struggle between the two of them, but Papa’s strong grip won out. 

“He’s so loud,” was all Henry’d said, not quite answering the question. Too scared to say no, too stubborn to say yes. 

“He is. Do you want him silenced before we proceed?” 

At that moment, it’d been precisely what Henry had wanted— had  _ needed _ —and Papa readily complied. For a long time after, the question became standard during lessons in the basement. Every time he started to look uncomfortable, squirming in his seat or covering his ears, one of his fathers would ask if he wanted silence. He’d hold out for as long as he could, waving them off once or twice before giving in. The evening Henry never said yes, he realized he hadn’t been startled once by the cooling corpse on the table. What they said, how they screamed it, the tears, the rhythm of their thrashing… It all sounded the same, in the end. A screeching record on endless repeat, skipping at times but otherwise faithfully playing a familiar tune every night. 

When an alpha howled and snarled, spit at him—it’d happened more times than he could count—or said something especially vile, he didn’t even really flinch anymore. Sometimes Dad did, but that was almost always in response to things said to or about Papa, which Henry supposed was an entirely different set of instincts at play. 

Playing back his memory from before, he tried to pay closer attention to the order of his reactions, the change in his breathing, the shaking of his hand as he held the karambit. It hadn’t been so much his curiosity as a growing sense of panic that led him to jab so uselessly with the blade. 

Then later, his father’s arm guiding his own, calm and confident in his precise movements, transferring that in some ways to Henry through his presence and scent. Henry wouldn’t always have that—couldn’t always have that, no matter how much the thought pained him—but the memory… that was something he could always draw on, wasn’t it? The more he focused on it, the easier it was to imagine his father’s hand laid over his own, like a protective covering only he could see. His hands wouldn’t shake, because he father wouldn’t allow it, and his aim couldn’t miss, because Papa always knew where to strike. And Papa certainly never trembled with anxiety over displeasing or angering an alpha, any alpha, so neither would Henry.

Finally feeling more clear-headed, Henry realized he’d been down in the basement for some time. His cheek and his arm felt numb where he pressed against the table. If it weren’t for the resulting shivers, it’d almost be a soothing sensation. He was still littered with aches from the day, but not all of them eased with the chill from the table. He spared a moment to think longingly of his warm bed, of being able to sleep this disaster of a day away and awake tomorrow feeling more like himself. 

Unfortunately, something told him sleep would be out of his reach for a long time. He could only hope Luca would have sweet enough dreams for them both.

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing this one was a doozy. Note to self: don't try to write while sleep deprived and out of your mind in pain from a toothache. 
> 
> Next update is one last dose of sibling fluff before... well you know what's (who's) coming. ;D
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️ 
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry makes an interesting find in the basement and tries to be prepared for his fathers' impending arrival.

At least this spell of quiet contemplation had left Henry feeling more settled inside his skin, even if he didn’t feel like he was on solid ground quite yet. Slowly, he rose to sit on the metal table, dangling his legs over the side. It was probably almost a foot from his shoes to the cement floor, and he aimlessly swung his legs back and forth, staring out into the darkness. By now he could make out the vague shape of the couch as well as the nearby workbench along the wall, bookended by two nebulous lumps that he remembered were probably gas canisters. All other details were lost to him.

Curious, because he hadn’t ever actually been down here alone, Henry hopped off his perch and moved over to the bench, blindly groping above his head for the light he knew had to be there. After five or six passes, the thin metal chain sliding along his fingertips but never quite in his grasp, he resorted to leaping until his fingers snaked around the cord. The light clicked on when he landed back on the floor. 

It was a duller bulb than the one hanging over the central table, bright enough for the surface and drawers in the vicinity to be visible, but that was all. There were more lamps dotted around the edges of the room, most of which would be lit on a typical night. With only these two, it was like standing under two spotlights on the stage of what must be a very strange play, everything cast in shadows but a table, a boy, and the vicious implements before him. 

Most of the tools were stored away neatly, either on pegs on the wall or organized in boxes. Some didn’t inspire much care, left randomly in drawers or tossed into nooks built into the bench, but a few, particularly the specialized blades, were meticulously tucked away in roll bags. Henry had always enjoyed watching them be unfurled, sliver after sliver of gleaming metal revealed slowly, reverently. 

He suspected Papa liked making a show of it. 

Those he had no intention of touching, figuring Papa would somehow _know_ they had been tampered with. Instead, Henry turned toward the pegs just above his eye level: saws, hammers, pliers, and many other tools one might conceivably store in a garage or basement, although kept much cleaner than was typical. They looked brand new, shining even in this dull light. Henry was halfway to convincing himself to climb up onto the table to grab for one of those tools when a mundane knife handle tucked under one of the shelves caught his eye. He had his own hunting knives, of course, gifts and rewards for various accomplishments, but he found himself unwilling to put this one down once he’d pulled it out. It was another blade that was an odd little shape, much longer and thinner than the karambit had been and tapering at the end into a point that tipped slightly backward. It reminded Henry of the razor-sharp teeth of some sort of sea monster. 

It was light, probably intended for the kitchen, yet somehow had ended up down here. Regardless, it was terribly sharp, and Henry rather liked how its wooden handle felt in his hand. As a bonus, lying not far away from where he’d found it was a leather sheath—a perfect fit. He slipped the knife inside, then put the sheath into his back pocket, suddenly feeling more grounded with the weight of it on him than he’d felt for most of the day. 

Before turning to leave, a stray thought had Henry digging around in one of the workbench’s drawers until he spotted a flash of orange, which he also pocketed before shutting off both the lights and hurrying up the stairs. He locked the doors behind him and only sighed a  _ little _ bit when it came time to return the key. At least he mostly avoided getting scratched up this time. 

Since there didn’t seem to be any commotion coming from inside, Henry felt safe in assuming his fathers had yet to return. He’d been moderately concerned that they would come home while he was somewhere he shouldn’t have been, so it was a relief to go back inside the house and find his sisters and brother precisely where he had left them, plus a certain other floppy-eared family member. 

Cephy wasn’t paying any attention to the tied up agent, likely having gotten her curious sniffs out of the way while Henry had been outside. Her focus didn’t seem to be on much of anything, to be honest. She was slumped onto her side on the carpet, her body bearing the weight of both Luca and Anna who had piled on top of her. Anna was giggling, smooshing her face repeatedly into the dog’s curly, brown fur at her neck, but Luca was motionless, just draped across Cephy’s middle. 

And getting absolutely  _ covered _ in dog hair. 

Grumbling under his breath—because he could see Abigail snickering at him already, having followed the path of his gaze—Henry strode over to a sideboard near the hall and grabbed a clothes roller from one of its drawers. Luca had yet to react to his return, and Henry would suspect he was sleeping if it wasn’t for the way he tensed, fingers digging into Cephy’s fur, as Henry strode closer. Cephy huffed at his shoe before trying and failing to roll over and flop onto it, helplessly pinned to the ground by two tiny children. 

“Luca,” Henry whispered, like he did when he tried to wake his brother gently. “Time to get up, Luca.”

No response. Henry briefly wondered how quickly he could get out of the way, should he just reach down and try to manually lift Luca onto his feet. History had—quite painfully—taught him his brother was much faster than he looked, so in the end, he decided it was not worth the risk. He leaned against the couch’s armrest, out of reach of Cephy’s leaky snout and Luca’s temperamental maw. 

“Luca.  _ Luca. _ Luuuuca? Lucky. Lookiloo. Luke.” One of these had to work eventually. “Els. Ellers. Elel. Luca  _ Lex Luthor _ Lecter.” 

A small noise of discontent and then Henry could see his brother’s blue eyes, narrowed and glaring up at him. “That’s not my name.” 

_ And the rest were? _ “Have  _ you _ ever seen your birth certificate?” Henry teased. “Because I have. Lots of L’s there.” Two counted as  _ lots,  _ right?

“Abi!” Luca whined, turning over onto his back and in the process elbowing Cephy in the gut. The dog groaned and vaguely kicked at him, missing Luca entirely, and then resettled onto the carpet with a sigh. 

“His middle names are definitely Lex and Luthor,” Henry said over his shoulder to Abigail. “Tell him.” 

She just laughed, fondly rolling her eyes. “Yes, because Papa would totally allow one of his children to have a comic book supervillain name.” 

“To be fair, Luca Lecter already kind of sounds like one,” Henry pointed out with a shrug. 

“It does not!”

“Kinda does, Lucky, sorry.” 

Luca leapt to his feet—miraculously managing not to stomp on any of Cephy’s paws—and growled through his teeth, “It. Does. Not.” 

“Okay, fine, it doesn’t.” Henry held his hands out, one still gripping the roller, and tried to look placating. Luca’s little fists were clenched at his sides, but he hadn’t started swinging yet. That had to be a good sign. “Could be worse, though,” Henry went on to say, swiftly kneeling next to his brother and taking the roller to his pants and shirt before he could squirm away. “You could be Hannibal the Cannibal  _ Junior.  _ Now if that doesn’t sound like a lame supervillain, I don’t know what does.”

“Papa hates that,” Abigail chided, although she was clearly holding back a smile. 

Eventually Luca had about enough of being subjected to Henry’s fussing and attempted to escape, only to be caught by Abigail and held in place. He stood still and allowed Henry to continue but seemed to wilt as each second passed. “You get to be a count,” he mumbled under his breath. 

Henry rocked back on his heels, staring at his brother who wasn’t looking at him, his head dipped so low his chin was on his chest. It was amazing how quickly Luca’s mood could switch from Cujo to kicked puppy. “Not really, Lucky. I’ll always have to keep that a secret. The last Count Lecter is a bit of an international criminal, isn’t he? That’d make for an awkward introduction.” 

Since his brother was still pouting, Henry did one last sweep for hair—he’d never be able to get it all now, but he did his best—and gently lifted Luca’s chin with a finger. “If the countship is  _ that _ important to you, Luca, you can have it.” 

Luca’s face lit up, the brightness rivaling his sneakers. “Really?” 

“Sure.” Henry shrugged. He didn’t want to mention any of the many thoughts he had on the subject, like if his Papa even  _ was _ a count anymore, considering he was A: an omega, who traditionally didn’t inherit much of anything at all, let alone titles, and B: a notorious serial killer. Henry felt like maybe titles were  _ stripped _ in those cases, but he couldn’t honestly be sure. Faced with Luca’s overjoyed, beaming smile, though, Henry had no desire to bring any of that up. Also,  _ Count Luca Lecter _ now sounded more like a vampire with a speech impediment than a supervillain. 

Free of Henry’s attentions, Luca turned to grab ahold of Abigail, shoes flashing as he jumped up and down in excitement. “I’m gonna be a count!” 

“So I heard! Lucky, wasn’t that very kind and generous of Henry?” she asked, using that tone all adults do when they’re not-so-subtly encouraging proper behavior. 

“Thank you, Hanni,” Luca said over his shoulder, seeming sincere enough, although he sounded more like Henry had just handed over his dessert rather than having relinquished his distinguished title to him. 

“No problem, Lucky,” he said, patting Luca on the head and heaving himself to his feet. “Are you done with drawing for now?” Henry did not relish the thought of hauling all that back to the playroom. In fact, even if Luca  _ was _ done, that bucket was staying precisely where it was. He’d move the coffee table back, maybe, but that was it. 

Fortunately, Luca snapped his eyes down to the table where all their supplies sat, remarkably undisturbed despite Anna being free to roam. Henry could only assume Abigail had been proactive about intercepting their sister if her little hands strayed too close to any materials. 

“Oh, right!” Luca said, dropping to the carpet like a rock, right on Abigail’s feet if the matching winches they each sported were any indication. He wasted no time getting back to work. 

Abigail tugged her feet free from under Luca and stood, scooping up Anna on her way to the hall. “If your offer still stands—” 

“It does.”

She paused for a moment, assessing him. “So you feel better?” 

Henry felt like his answer of, “not really, but I would rather not be lovingly grilled about  _ my feelings _ right now,” would probably be a poor answer, so he shot her a strained grin and two thumbs up, hoping to convey the same meaning. 

She didn’t look particularly convinced but nodded anyway. “Alright. I’ll let you two know when they’re close; Papa’s been texting me updates—” 

Henry held up a finger before she could say anything further, and while she quizzically raised a brow, Abigail complied and was silent. 

“Sorry, just one second.” He turned and stalked over to Agent Crawford, who jerked at Henry’s sudden approach. Even though there was nothing he could to do avoid contact, the man still squirmed and reared his head as far away from Henry as possible, which made getting the earplugs he’d retrieved from the basement a far greater pain to put in than they needed to be. 

Despite the agent’s best efforts—and small grunts of pain when Henry pushed a little too hard—Henry finally got both the plugs in and gave the orange strap connecting them a flick to set it swinging.  

“Good thinking,” Abigail said from behind him. 

“Thanks.” Henry retreated a few steps after watching and making sure Agent Crawford’s wouldn’t try to shake anything loose. Had he been thinking clearly earlier, Henry probably should have blindfolded the man too, right after drugging him. It was too late to do anything about it now, though, and he tried to put what he  _ should _ have done out of his mind. “So,” he said with a heavy exhale, crossing over to join Luca again, “what’s Papa been saying?” 

“Just that Dad’s been making him take down license plate numbers literally anytime someone cuts them off or drives too slow.” 

Henry laughed, easing down to his previous spot at the table. “I feel like that’s going to be a long list.” 

“Should keep them occupied once all this is over,” Abigail agreed. “Dad’s going to be on edge for months.” 

The knife was digging slightly into Henry’s back, but he ignored the discomfort and grabbed one of the pens he’d been using earlier to outline his sketch. He cleared his throat and asked, “What was he like after we left France?” 

“Paranoid,” she sighed, leaning against the archway. “We traveled a lot, never stayed in one city, one  _ country _ for very long. Covered our tracks. Probably why it took so long for something like this to happen again. After we got the house, for months Dad would just… up and leave; go halfway across the continent sometimes, just to plant false leads as far away from us as he’d dare to go.” 

“And Papa would let him?” 

Abigail smiled and gave a little shrug. “Dad  _ does _ win arguments sometimes. All he’s ever really cared about was our safety. I think Papa couldn’t bring himself to deny him the ability to do what he thought was best to accomplish that.” 

It’d probably be a long time before Dad felt they were safe again, Henry thought, eyes darting to Agent Crawford, who looked put out at no longer being able to eavesdrop on Lecter Family chats. 

“What do you think Dad will do when he gets home?” Henry tried to keep his tone neutral; he likely failed. 

“I really couldn’t say, Henry. Dad can be unpredictable sometimes.” 

This Henry knew. Like he was reflecting on earlier, Dad was not quite as stoic during Henry’s basement lessons as Papa and would sometimes unexpectedly cut the evening short. The resulting cast-off blood was usually enough that Henry would have to take a bath before bed, as opposed to just a quick wash-up in the sink, which was extremely irritating. 

“I guess we’ll see,” Henry finally said, which Abigail took to be the end of the conversation. She said her goodbyes and disappeared down the hall. 

Henry was lost in the repetitive motion of his pen when Luca’s voice took him by surprise a few minutes later. “I don’t wanna move.” 

“Who said anything about moving?” 

Luca sighed and dropped his crayon onto the table, far harder than necessary. His new picture was a toss up between Zeus or Thor… or maybe a svelte Santa Claus with lightning powers. “Abi said we had to move a lot after the old house, ‘cause someone found us.” 

Henry scooted closer and wrapped a comforting arm around his brother. “Agent Crawford  _ almost _ caught us back then. But this time, we caught  _ him. _ It’s different.” 

“So we won’t have to leave? I like our house.” Luca was toying with the button on his shirt sleeve, rubbing it between his fingers and refusing to meet Henry’s eyes. 

Henry wished he could assure his brother that nothing was going to change, but he had no idea what his fathers were ultimately going to do. He didn’t want to say something and get his brother’s hopes up. 

“Don’t worry about it, Lucky,” he settled on saying, rubbing Luca’s arm and leaning forward to affectionately nuzzle at his cheek. As he expected, Luca giggled and squirmed away, weakly pushing Henry off of him. “Dad and Papa will take care of  _ everything,”  _ Henry added. That he knew without a doubt. 

Luca accepted that answer, still laughing and trying to wiggle out of Henry’s grasp. He let his brother go and sat back up, considered returning to his drawing that was almost finished. However, he was distracted suddenly by movement out of the corner of his eye. Now that Abigail was out of the room, the agent had again resumed his struggle with his ropes. It seemed the fish flopped strategically, only daring to move when it thought it didn’t have the eyes of a predator on it. 

To his annoyance, the agent was staring at him as he wrestled to be free, shifting his glance from the various lengths of rope and knots he could see and then back up to Henry, who feigned having his focus on the paper in front of him. As far as Henry could tell from his peripheral vision, something had definitely come loose since the last time he’d checked the ropes. 

He should have asked Abigail for an ETA before she’d left. Now Henry was unsure if it was worth the risk to approach Agent Crawford once more to fix the restraints. Re-agitating the alpha could throw both Luca and Henry off balance, and he’d rather like to at least  _ appear _ calm and collected when his fathers got home. If that was going to be imminent, then the slightly slackened ropes weren’t a big deal. But if they were still tens of minutes away, that could be just enough time for something unfortunate to happen. 

Decision made, Henry rose and tried to level Luca with a serious look, to tell him to  _ stay,  _ but his brother wasn’t even paying attention to him anymore.  

Agent Crawford, of course, noticed Henry’s movements, and visibly tensed when Henry approached him. It was tempting to levy some kind of threat, promise all manner of harm should the man be less than cooperative, but Henry couldn’t be bothered. If he didn’t know by  _ now _ not to do something rash—especially faced with an armed captor—there was little hope for someone that terminally stupid. 

Henry rounded the chair to get a closer look at the problem. He’d used a great many different pieces, worried that if it was mostly all one length, loosening it in any one place would create a domino effect. This way, each knot was a separate barrier, giving them ample opportunity to catch their guest while still in the process of escape. 

Like now. It was the arms that were the culprit. As he suspected, the alpha was strong; his repeated flexing and straining against the ropes had started to stretch them out, allowing him far too much wiggle room. Given enough time, it was possible he could free his arms. Henry wasn’t exceptionally confident that those zip-ties would slow down a properly motivated alpha for long. 

All the metal in the basement certainly made sense now: rope just wasn’t up to the job. Nevertheless, it’s what he had to work with. As silly as it probably looked, Henry was glad for his overzealous approach, because it meant he wasn’t taking too great a risk as he undid some of the knots securing the agent’s arms together. There were still the zip-ties and  _ more _ rope underneath, and the man had little time to take advantage of his slightly increased range of freedom before Henry was quickly tying him down again, redoing his previous knots with more care than last time. 

He might have accidentally gotten some scuffs on the back of the chair from his shoe when he braced against it, pulling the rope as tight as he was able. 

From where he stood, it looked like maybe Agent Crawford was losing circulation in his fingers, but Henry wasn’t too concerned. His work would be inspected before there was any risk of the agent permanently losing his digits. Probably. 

Finished, Henry crossed to the front of the large chair and watched his captive for a moment, who was testing his new restraints and groaning in displeasure or pain. Hard to say. He hadn’t growled or done anything else unwise once Henry had gotten close, so Henry took that as a small victory. 

Granted, Henry didn’t think the relative docility of his captive had much of anything to do with him. Most likely, he was only following along with Abigail’s earlier demands anyway; he wasn’t doing anything out of respect to the threat Henry himself posed. Henry doubted his little choking demonstration earlier had made much of an impact on Agent Crawford’s opinion of him or how dangerous he was either. All it probably did in the agent’s mind was convince him that Henry’s fathers had done a poor job of raising a normal, well-adjusted son. He likely thought Henry was in store for decades of psychiatric help, if his parents were ever apprehended. 

Should the truly worst come to pass, Henry wondered how he’d ever be able to stomach the deluge of false concern and sympathy he’d be subjected to; it was all too easy to imagine being treated like this damaged, fragile thing left into the care of the state, talked around and about, pitied for being sucked into vile circumstances he couldn’t begin to understand. And yet at the same time, there was no doubt he’d also be regarded with deep suspicion and unease, especially as he got older. A ticking time bomb of violent potential. Luca and Anna could possibly be spared that, if they were placed in homes quickly and discreetly, but Henry, after saying so many damning things directly to the agent in charge of his fathers’ investigation? He’d be doomed.

Would his acting abilities be enough to avoid being institutionalized? Did they even have facilities for kids like him? He couldn’t be sure and would rather never have to find out. 

In the time he’d been pondering the worst outcome possible for their family, Henry had wandered back over to his brother and flopped down on the carpet, wincing slightly when he forget about the knife. At least it was in its sheath. He put his drawing of the angel aside, no longer in the mood for its intricacy with the current state of his nerves. 

Digging the knife out of his pocket, Henry leaned against the couch as he unsheathed it. The blade was  _ so _ sharp. He tested it on a spare piece of paper, delighting in the ease in which it smoothly sheared off a strip. The noise drew Luca’s attention, briefly, but when Henry didn’t do anything more interesting, his hand darted out to steal the strip of paper like a feral scavenger. Luca resumed completely ignoring Henry’s existence as he folded and refolded his new bounty into a wobbly accordion shape.

Studying it now in better light, Henry was positive his initial assumption about the knife had been correct—it had some kitchen utility related to fish, probably filleting or descaling. And while that may be the  _ intended _ usage, something told him it could be very versatile indeed for his purposes. 

A few intriguing ideas came to him, and he was just wondering where his muscle anatomy textbook was when he heard Abigail’s footsteps in the hall. 

“They’re just down the road,” she said, poking her head into the room. “You ready?” 

Luca immediately squealed with joy, quickly turning into a flailing bundle of excitement, but the question had been directed at Henry. He turned his knife over in his hand—noticing that Abigail’s eyes flicked to it with curiosity—and placed it within its sheath and back into his pocket.

After exhaling a long breath, Henry shakily stood and nodded. Whatever his fate was in the coming hours, he was ready to face it. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Cephy's a Cocker Spaniel, but the gif was too cute not to use. Poor old girl is just far too used to these kids' shenanigans to care anymore. 
> 
> Next update, our beloved Murder Dads come home!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal are home. Hugs abound.

For lack of anything better to do with his hands, Henry set about cleaning up a bit of the mess he and Luca—mostly Luca—had been making, throwing away his paper scraps, neatly stacking all the completed pictures, and putting away any of the utensils Luca wasn’t currently using. He felt the hysterical urge to  _ dust _ his captured FBI agent, like polishing him up was going to make his presence any less stressful or upsetting for Henry’s fathers.

Luca somehow tolerated Henry as he flitted about the sitting room, straightening knickknacks, shining glass and mirrors with his shirt sleeves, and repeatedly trying to flatten Luca’s hair where it stubborn stuck up in the back. 

Abigail had disappeared back down the hall to watch over their sister, who was probably going to get fed up with being bustled back and forth in the house at some point, but for now was being as good a sport about it as a baby was able. All the attention and changes in scenery likely served as a welcome distraction anyway, both from missing their fathers and the stranger in the house. 

Henry was debating what else he could be doing or had forgotten to do—had he cleaned up the kitchen earlier, after Luca’s snack? He couldn’t remember, maybe he should—when Cephy suddenly sat up, head tilted as she looked toward the front of the house. She’d scooted closer to Luca in the last few minutes but had otherwise remained comatose on the floor. And while she wasn’t being particularly  _ lively _ at the moment, she was certainly listening to something with interest. 

Both Henry and Luca seemed to realize the significance of the dog’s attention at the same time, because they simultaneously scrambled to get out into the hall and run for the foyer. As they neared, they heard the unmistakable rumble of Papa’s car pulling up to the garage—not  _ inside _ it, of course, since it had been converted into Dad’s workshop and storage for his fishing gear years ago. 

Luca looked about ready to charge out the door and meet them out on the porch, but Henry managed to snag him at the last moment, prompting no small amount of flailing and loud, squeaky demands to be let go. Footsteps could be heard right outside the door, rapid and getting closer. 

Henry was just hissing at Luca to stay still,  _ stand straight,  _ and other things Luca was obviously ignoring when the door banged open, nearly bouncing off the wall. 

Dad was the first one through, which wasn’t much of a surprise. What  _ was _ a surprise, however, was before Henry had time to even greet his fathers, he found himself much higher off the ground than he remembered being, suddenly trapped in a near bruising hug. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw Luca lifted up too, wrapped gently in Papa’s arm without even a fraction of the desperation Henry found himself enveloped in. And that… was a difficult thing to deal with so abruptly. The  _ terror _ coming off his father was enough to choke him. Henry pushed it to the back of his mind, concentrating more on the fact that he had to quickly get his legs back under his body in order to stay upright, as Dad’s appeared no longer up for the task as he folded to the ground. 

Luca was babbling to Papa in rapid-pace, excited chatter, singing Henry’s praises for his bravery, his own for being such a helpful asset all afternoon, and asking with bright-eyed pleading if they could keep the pictures, not bothering to elaborate on what he was talking about. 

“We should have been here,” Dad mumbled against Henry’s hair, his entire body faintly trembling. 

Henry raised his hands and tentatively rubbed along his father’s back in an attempt to soothe him. “It’s okay,” he said, a little strained from having most of the air squeezed out of him. 

Apparently that hadn’t been the right thing to say. Dad leaned back, his constrictive grip changing to grab Henry by the shoulder. “It’s  _ not. _ Nothing about this is-is okay. You could have… God, I don’t even want to  _ think—” _

Henry bit his lip and said nothing, casting his eyes down on the floor. It was the only thing he could think to do. He had no plan for how to handle his father being anything other than angry. 

Luca had switched gears and was now gushing about his shoes, begging to be let down to show them off. The moment Papa acquiesced, instead of being able to merrily stomp his way to a light explosion, Luca found himself ensnared by the fatherly death grip that Henry had just as suddenly been released from. Either he was made of tougher stuff than Henry or Dad didn’t squeeze him as hard, but Luca accepted the hug without complaint, tucking himself up underneath Dad’s chin and wrapping his little arms around his neck. 

Henry thought perhaps that was a good moment to step away and get out of reach, but upon feeling him start to shift, Dad’s arm darted forward and pulled him back into a suffocating group hug. It was beginning to seem to Henry like they were going to do little else but cling to each other in the hall for the rest of the night. Brought close again, Henry couldn’t help but notice that Luca had finally picked up on their father’s mood; his eyes nervously sought out Henry’s as he fisted a hand into their father’s shirt. 

When he clearly wasn’t letting up anytime soon, Papa crouched next to their little huddle, placing comforting hands on both Dad and Luca. “Will,” he said quietly, trying and failing to draw Dad’s attention. “They’re safe, Will. You’ve seen for yourself that they’re fine. We have other matters to attend to.”

“We could have lost them, we could—”

“We did not,” Papa said, gently prying Dad’s arms away. Henry took the opportunity to pull Luca a few steps back with him, where the air wasn’t quite so saturated with Dad’s distress. At this point, Henry was really hoping the rage and disappointment from the phone call would come back. Anything would be better than this. 

“Our sons, our daughters are safe, healthy and whole,” Papa continued, “but if you cannot calm yourself so that we might deal with this complication, you put them at risk. Are you going to fulfill your purpose and be their protector, Will, or—”

Dad sat back on the balls of his feet, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Christ, Hannibal, don’t start with that shit. Stop, okay? I get it.”  

Papa shifted to kneel behind him and wrapped his arms around his chest, resting his chin on Dad’s shoulder. “While I will always appreciate the depth of your love for our family, there will be time for this later,” he whispered. 

“I know, I know. Just, give me a minute here.” Dad sighed. “Where are the girls?” 

“Abigail has Anna with her. She thought it best to wait until matters were resolved before bringing her out to us. I can show you the picture she sent as we pulled up, if you like?” 

“They’re probably still in the playroom. That’s where she was headed when she told us you were almost here,” Henry helpfully added. He held Luca back with one hand, rubbing his shoulder and arm to return him to some semblance of calm. Seeing their Dad on the verge of tears had to be even more alarming for him than it was for Henry. Luckily, his brother wasn’t putting up a fight against the hold and actually reached up to grab Henry’s hand with one of his own. His grip was surprisingly strong. 

Dad just nodded and slowly rose to his feet after a few deep breaths. “Okay, good. She should stay there. Anna doesn’t—she doesn’t need to see any of this. In fact, Lucky, sweetheart, why don’t you go and join them?” 

Luca’s whole face scrunched as he peered up at Henry, giving him as beseeching a look as he could while upside down. Henry could only shrug. “Dad’s right, you should go be with Abi. You’ll have more fun in the playroom anyway.” 

“You too, Henry.” 

_ …What.  _

Henry and Luca made identical, irritated noises of protest, although Luca was the only one to stomp his foot to blinding effect. “That’s not fair!” his brother whined. Henry was glad he held his tongue, as had he spoken, he would have echoed in unison with Luca and then would’ve had to drop dead on the spot in humiliation.

Papa moved, sweeping Luca into his arms and out of Henry’s grasp in one swift, smooth motion. “That’s enough of that. For our peace of mind, Luca, you’re going to stay with Abigail, and you’re not to leave her side until told otherwise. Do you understand?” His tone brooked no argument.

After cycling through various pouts to no effect, Luca narrowed his eyes down at Henry, his look accusing, and grumbled, “What about Hanni?” 

“Yes, Hannibal, what  _ about _ Hanni? I told them both to go,” Dad said, crossing his arms. Henry stood awkwardly between his parents as they leveled hard stares at each other over his head. Should… should he say something? He figured he could come up with some very good arguments as to why he should get to stay, not the least of which was that this was—

“His catch,” Papa said, drawing Henry’s attention so fast his neck cracked. Papa had a very slight smirk as he continued. “Willfully or no, he set this evening into motion. He should be allowed to see it through.” 

Henry wanted to say it was very much  _ not _ willful on his part, but sometimes staying still and quiet and hoping the wreckage of a battle lands safely away from you is the best course of action, so that is exactly what he did. 

“This is serious, Hannibal! It isn’t like playing around in the basement where we’re in control of all the variables. We don’t know what’s waiting for us here.” 

“I think that we do. Unless circumstances have changed in the last five minutes, our son has taken every precaution and secured Jack for us, practically gift wrapped.” 

Dad dragged a hand down his face. “Gee, and it’s not even my birthday,” he snarked. 

During their exchange, Henry had retreated a few steps toward the sitting room, just to get out from immediately between his parents and also to be close enough that he could stretch, lean back, and get a peek into the room. “Jack’s right where I left him,” he said. “I’ve been checking and retying some of his bindings, too. He should, uh, be good for a while.” 

Papa shot Dad a small, smug smile, as if to say,  _ see. He’s handled it. _ At least, Henry hoped that’s what it meant. 

“That’s… great, Henry. Look, come here. Just—” Dad was waving him over as he took a knee on the polished hardwood floor. Henry did as he was bid, stopping right in front of his father and trying not to wring his wrist that he held behind his back too hard. He’d bruise himself if he wasn’t careful. 

Dad seemed uncertain as to what to do with his hands before settling them around the caps of Henry’s shoulders. The touch was light, a mere whisper of a hold, like he was afraid if he grabbed any harder, he’d be helpless to resist dragging Henry into another crushing embrace. 

Before anything could be said, Henry heard Papa cheerily tell Luca, “Why don’t we go see how your sisters are faring, hm? You can tell me more about everything we have missed on the way.” Dad’s eyes were focused on the pair of them behind Henry, and he eventually gave a small nod, an answer to some silent communication Henry didn’t see. 

Once it sounded like they were most of the way down the hall, Luca’s voice too quiet to hear anymore, Dad sighed again. He lifted a hand to gently run it over Henry’s hair, something he’d be inclined to protest, given how close to it was  _ petting,  _ but Henry felt like his Dad needed the comfort the action brought more than he personally needed dignity. At least the air surrounding him was calmer at the moment, and Henry could think clearly again. 

“Honey, you’ve got to understand, this is going to be different than anything you’ve done before.” Dad’s words were soft and quiet, almost a whisper, even though they were alone. “Those other alphas, they were…” 

“Bad?” Henry offered when the silence stretched on for too long, in a voice so small and childish he was temporarily horrified with himself. Something about the earnest, near pleading way his Dad was looking up at him, though, was twisting his insides back into knots. 

“Yes, Henry. God, you know how much I wanted to keep you away from all of this, but Hannibal was convinced it was too large a part of who we are to hide it from our children forever. I don’t know if you remember what happened after he suggested we let you join us down there—”

“The fighting? Yeah, I remember that,” Henry cut in, laughing awkwardly. It hadn’t felt very funny back then, though, being the only time he’d ever heard  _ either _ of his fathers truly raise their voices. It’d frightened him, and he’d been plagued with the idea that it was somehow all his fault. How unpleasant it had been to learn that he’d been right. 

“Wish I could have kept that from you, too,” Dad said with his own brief snort of amusement, so maybe it was just one of those things that inexplicably became less awful with time. “I can’t change what’s happened, and honestly, I don’t want to. I’m proud of you, Henry. You’re so much braver than I ever could have been at your age, you know that, right?” 

Henry shrugged, his face feeling a little hot and eyes starting to burn. It was just what he’d been desperate to hear all day and now, having heard it, he wanted to shove the words back, claw them out of his ears. The relief was too much, almost crushing him from the inside out. The delicate balance he’d achieved on his own not long ago was already in peril, and he hated it. Henry swallowed heavily, trying to get past the lump growing in his throat. Grinding his teeth and digging his nails into his palms seemed enough to keep the tears at bay for now, if only just. 

Dad then leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Henry’s forehead, making everything so much worse. 

“So,” Henry said, annoyed the short word had managed to break in the middle despite his efforts to stop it. He was steadfastly refusing to meet his Dad’s gaze, hoping it’d encourage him to  _ get on with it  _ so they could move on.

“So what I’m trying to tell you is that the things we do in the basement are  _ different _ than what is about to happen tonight. It will  _ make you _ different. And Jack… Jack is a good man. He was just — to him the ends always justify the means, but the intention… his intention was always good.” 

_ And? _ Henry wanted to ask. Truthfully he had never given much consideration as to whether the men on his fathers’ table  _ deserved _ to be there. His ends had never needed justification to begin with. He wanted to participate, his fathers let him, so he did. And it certainly didn’t matter to him now whether the agent in the other room was a hero or villain in life—to Henry, he was a nuisance. His presence only created problems for their family. Nothing else was important. 

“And here I thought you had tired of extolling Jack’s virtues years ago, Will.” Henry turned to look behind him and saw Papa standing next to the stairs, just the right distance to both watch their conversation and sneak a glance into the parlor. 

“I’m not,” Dad snapped, shooting his husband a glare. “He needs to understand. There’s no going back from this.” 

Henry was having trouble understanding what the fuss was about. It wasn’t like the legal system would care about the moral standing of his victims, so why should he? It was the  _ act _ that mattered, and although he had at times struggled with the physiological reality of the experience, Henry had never so much as blinked at the thought of taking a life. He could try and blame that on his parents, the kinds of men they were and the things they did in secret, but the concept was something he’d thought about before it was ever exposed to him. It had been such a relief, when he was small, to know the screams he’d heard were real and not just the products of his hopeful imagination. 

Maybe not when he was so young, but Henry was always going to become  _ this _ in life, he was sure of it. Only now, he was not going to grow into a man who felt  _ wrong _ somehow, broken and twisted inside because some long-forgotten, animal part of his brain desired the unfathomable. Henry already knew who he was,  _ what _ he was. 

“I understand,” he said to his fathers, looking at them with what he hoped was a solemn, mature expression. He’d voice these thoughts he was having some other time, when they had the luxury to sit down and explore them together. But not now, when action and unburdened minds were needed. 

“I don’t think you do,” Dad said, brows furrowed and mouth pulled down into a frown. 

“Will.” Papa strode forward and tucked Henry into his side, pulling him away from Dad and laying a protective hand on the side of his head. Papa’s hands were large and warm, and Henry found himself slumping against his father’s body, just a little, just for a moment. “We cannot decide this for him.” 

Even though he was kneeling on the hardwood floor, Dad didn’t deign to rise to his feet, not yet. “No, I think we kind of can. Because we’re his  _ parents?  _ That’s the whole point; we decide what’s best for him when he can’t. That’s our  _ job.” _ He sighed again, not waiting for a response. “He’s ten, Hannibal. We—”

Henry tried not to make a face at the mention of his age. It would only bolster whatever argument was about to be levied against him. 

“He’s older than I was,” Papa interrupted, his tone cool and casual, like referencing the worst winter of his life was mundane, almost boring. Henry reached up to lay a hand atop the one against his head; he hoped the gesture was comforting.

Dad’s face did a series of rapid shifts—confusion, sympathy, heartbreak—before settling on frustration. “That is  _ not _ the same thing!” 

“No, it isn’t,” Papa agreed. “Our son is not alone. He has us to guide him, support and protect him when he needs it. And allow him the freedom to act on his own when he does not.” 

With no retort to that, Dad wilted slightly. “It feels like we made a very wrong turn somewhere on the path of responsible parenting.” 

“Responsible according to whom?” 

Dad laughed with no real humor. “Literally anyone other than you, Hannibal. Or me, I guess. Fuck it.” He stood, knee joints cracking. Henry suspected his Dad had been rather stiff and tense during the drive home. 

“Nothing has to happen yet beyond a friendly conversation, Will, don’t worry so much,” Papa said, using the hand not still clamping Henry to his side to gently steer Dad toward their destination. 

“I doubt it’ll be all that friendly.  _ I’m _ not feeling particularly friendly, anyway. Are you?” Dad regarded Papa with a single raised brow. 

Papa gave a small, dismissive shrug. “That will depend on how the evening proceeds.” Held as close to his father’s body as he was, Henry suddenly  _ felt _ more than he heard Papa’s stomach gurgle right next to his head and had to work very hard to suppress a laugh. “More importantly, it appears I’d have to say I’m hungry. I imagine our guest would be quite ravenous by now, wouldn’t he?” 

Henry looked up at his father and nodded, cracking a smile at the smirk he saw directed down at him. 

“I’d ask if you were serious, but I know better by now,” Dad said with an eye roll that still managed to look fond. He beckoned them to walk with him. “Come on, then. Let’s go see what Uncle Jack wants for dinner.”

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my headcanon that Will uses a _ton_ of petnames and terms of endearment. 
> 
> Also, Murder Dads are _finally_ home! Only took them nearly half the fic! Next chapter, they say hello to Jack and a tiny killer-in-training gets roped into helping make dinner.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose) and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Jack catch up. Henry gets dragged away to help make dinner.

Neither of Henry’s parents paused in the doorway like Abigail had, although their eyes stayed squarely on Jack as they strode across the room, and Jack gawked at them in return.

Henry squirmed out from under Papa’s relaxed grip and dashed to the wet bar. During his frantic straightening up of the room, he’d relocated all the files and everything else he’d taken from the agent to this one location. Dad left Papa’s side near the center of the room and approached curiously, giving most of the items on display a cursory glance before grabbing the gun. He racked the slide and ejected the magazine—Henry couldn’t see, but guessing by his father’s face, he’d say it was loaded—before reloading and tucking it into the back of his pants. 

“Who removed his gun?” Dad asked, disapproving tone telling Henry he already knew and didn’t like the answer. 

“I did. Abi wasn’t home yet, but I couldn’t just leave him armed.” 

Dad rubbed the back of his neck and leaned a hip against the wet bar, idly poking through the file there. “Okay, that was the right call. Other than removing it, you left it alone?” 

Henry nodded. “And Luca didn’t touch it either.” 

“Good, that’s good.” Dad had paused in his rifling and was looking at a photo of a woman impaled on a rack of antlers. Henry hadn’t found it particularly interesting, but his father clearly did. 

At Henry’s curious stare, Dad said, with a wave toward the photo, “Your Papa’s first courting gift to me.” 

“That sounds backward,” Henry remarked at the same time Papa grumbled, “It was not.” 

Dad turned, reclining more on the surface behind him, and shot a lopsided grin at his husband. “Oh? So you didn’t kill and display that girl, specifically for me—” 

“The investigation—”

“Which you can’t convince me you ever actually cared about. ” 

Papa looked to argue that point but gave up after only a moment of consideration. “True, but I merely wanted to help you.” 

Something about the back and forth loosened something in Dad, the tension draining away from his posture. “You never  _ merely _ do anything, but sure, let’s go with that,” he conceded with a shrug. He briefly glanced at Jack, noticing the earplugs, before continuing. “If it wasn’t the first copycat killing, what was it?” 

Papa idly tapped his fingers against his thigh and sucked on his bottom lip. “I know what yours was to me,” he offered, rather than answer the question. 

“Oh?” 

A small but proud smile broke out on Papa’s face. “Randall.” 

Dad barked a laugh, looking fond when he said, “Short courtship. Might be a record.” 

“Formal courtships are a proving ground for the potential couple,” Papa said, “for the alpha to demonstrate their ability to provide and protect and for the omega to show their worthiness and value to the alpha.” 

Pushing off the bar, Dad walked back to Papa, arms encircling Papa’s waist. “You never had to prove your worthiness to me.” 

Henry rolled his eyes and snuck a glance at Agent Crawford, who looked rather dumbstruck. 

“And I had long bore witness to your strength,” Papa was murmuring and held Dad a little closer. “Why deny what we wanted for formality’s sake?” 

Dad couldn’t seem to help it; he laughed again, melting a little into Papa’s embrace. “Except I would have appreciated a heads-up that was the particular dance we were doing.” 

“Do you regret it?” Papa asked, but his eyes were crinkled in a subtle smile. 

Dad looked back to Henry, still hovering near the wet bar and thoroughly lost in the conversation. At least now he had his answer as to who killed  _ Randall Tier. _ “How could I? Although, kiddo,” Dad said, pointing a lazy finger in Henry’s direction, “this whole courtship thing goes a lot smoother when  _ both _ parties are aware it’s happening. Remember that when you’re older.” 

Henry could only nod and try not to let his confusion show. “I’ll try?” 

His response prompted another snort from Dad, who leaned against Papa to bury his face in the crook of his neck. When a muffled grunt abruptly reminded him of who else was in the room, Dad slowly turned his head to regard the other alpha. 

“Can’t put this off any longer, can we?” 

“No, I don’t believe so,” was Papa’s answer, gently pushing Dad to stand upright. He didn’t seem to care for remaining on his feet any longer and promptly sat on the coffee table where Henry had left it in front of the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him. 

Papa’s displeasure at the improper use of furniture was clear on his face, but he didn’t comment on it as he marched over to Jack and moved to remove the earplugs and ungag him. 

Henry scrambled to sit next to his father on the table, house rules be damned, just barely making it before the duct tape was unceremoniously ripped away.

Dad wrapped an arm around Henry, pulling him close. “Hello, Jack.” 

After a few long seconds of sputtering and coughing, Agent Crawford regained his breath long enough to gasp out a mostly cordial, “Will.” Papa regarded the damp napkins on the agent’s lap with no small amount of disdain and whisked them away to be dumped in a nearby trash can. Jack watched the movement out of the corner of his eyes before sliding his gaze back to Henry and his Dad. “This wasn’t how I hoped to see you again.” 

“I had hoped to never see you at all, so I guess we both get to be disappointed tonight,” his father replied. “I imagine the only place you really wanted to see me again was behind bars, right?”  _ Again. _ Henry blinked, looking up at his father’s profile. He’d definitely missed something in that folder. 

“It’s where you belong.” 

“I belong with my family, Jack,” Dad said, his grip tightening just a bit. 

Henry couldn’t quite hear what the agent grumbled at that as he glanced around, trying to catch sight of where Papa had slunk off to. Unable to find him, Agent Crawford huffed a breath before regarding Dad with an incredulous expression. “What are you doing, Will? How long did you honestly expect to be able to just… play house with a monster?” 

“Who says I’m playing?” 

“So you’re not going to deny he’s a monster?” Jack asked, eyes narrowed. 

Dad shrugged and idly scratched at his beard, which he’d been growing out lately. “Why would I? In case you forgot, I was the one who first told you what he was. I’m well aware.” 

“What changed? You wanted to  _ kill him.  _ You wanted to see him pay for what he’d done just as much as anyone.” There was something pleading in Jack’s face, maybe a genuine desire to understand, or maybe a desperate wish for someone to jump out of the shadows and yell, “Surprise! This has all been a terrible dream!” 

Dad didn’t answer for a handful of breaths, his hand a steady presence on Henry, calloused thumb rubbing mindlessly along his arm. “Somewhere along the line, I realized I couldn’t hate Hannibal, no matter how much I wanted to. Couldn’t hate him, couldn’t kill him. But even after accepting that, I still would have helped you catch him. I needed to. But instincts are a hell of a thing, Jack. Didn’t matter how much I thought I wanted justice; nothing was going to trump a bond. And once I knew he existed, I couldn’t stomach the idea of my child being born in prison, or god forbid, the BHCI. Can you imagine what Chilton could have done to… Christ.”

Next to Henry, a shudder briefly racked Dad’s body before he was able to shake free of whatever image had so profoundly disturbed him. 

“You’re actually bonded then,” Jack said into the silence that had descended on the room. “He’s really a…”

Recovered, Dad chuckled and reached up to pull aside the collar of his shirt, revealing the deep-set, ugly mating scar there. “Did it all a little out of order, but yes. Actually bonded. Got married too; not under our real names, unfortunately. I wasn’t lying when I said this was my family, Jack.”

“When did you know? That Lec— that he was—” Jack cut himself off, eyes darting back and forth across the parlor like saying the name was going to summon Henry’s father like a vengeful demon, even though he was only a handful of feet away. Papa seemed content to let Dad steer the conversation and remained looming just outside of the agent’s range of vision. “We never even questioned if the Ripper could be anything other than an alpha.” 

Dad shrugged again as he took in Jack’s glum and disbelieving face. “Hannibal has always been very good at misdirection and keeping his secrets well hidden. And I didn’t know, to answer your question. Not until Henry.” 

Jack blinked. He opened his mouth like he wanted to ask another question but thought better of it, snapping it closed with a clack. 

“Like I said,” Dad repeated meaningfully, blushing just a bit. “Misdirection.” 

Henry, who wasn’t sure exactly what was going unspoken in the conversation and was very certain he didn’t  _ want _ to know, noticed the little looks Papa had started giving toward the kitchen. As he wasn’t even trying to be subtle, Dad noticed too. 

“Oh, right.” Dad sighed, straightening a bit from the slouch he’d started to settle into. “Even though you came here uninvited, Hannibal remains as gracious a host as ever. We have to insist that you stay for dinner. In the mood for anything in particular? We have a little bit of everything, the kids can be fussy eat—”

Jack turned an interesting shade of green before spitting out, “If you think I’m going to eat  _ anything _ that man makes, you’re as crazy as he is.” 

Dad was nonplussed at the outburst, more amused than anything if the high lift of one of his brows was any indication. He glanced down at Henry, a smirk on his face. “I heard ‘I’ll leave that decision in Hannibal’s capable hands,’ what about you?”

“I thought I heard something about breakfast for dinner being his favorite.” Henry turned his hopeful, pleading eyes on his father across the room.

“Funny, I thought that was the favorite of someone else I know,” said Papa with a knowing grin. “Would you like to come and assist me?” 

That sounded less like an actual question than a politely worded order, so with a resigned sigh, Henry nodded. Dad pressed a comforting kiss to his hair and gently pushed him to rise from the coffee table when he didn’t make a move to do so on his own. “You won’t miss anything, don’t worry. While you two are busy, I was going to check on the girls and Luca.” 

“Let them know dinner will be in half an hour,” Papa requested.

“Of course.” 

As Henry had stubbornly remained standing in front of the coffee table, Dad rose and guided him across the room and into Papa’s waiting hands. He supposed he could be even more mulish and become dead weight, but the thought of then literally being picked up and carried off wasn’t appealing, nor was lowering his fathers’ opinion of his level of maturity, so he allowed himself to be moved. 

Dad was in the doorway leading to the hall when he stopped to look back at the agent. “You’ve probably had enough of chewing on napkins for today, right Jack? You’re not going to make me have to come over there.” It  _ also _ wasn’t a question. 

Papa was already pushing Henry in the direction of the kitchen, but he was still close enough to hear Jack growl out, “No. I’ll be quiet.”

Cephy hadn’t been in the living room when Henry had returned with his fathers, nor was she under the dining room table again. Henry couldn’t be sure where she’d run off to this time, but he didn’t doubt the scent of cooking food would bring her out soon enough. 

In the kitchen, Papa immediately went to work setting various things out on the counter from the fridge and pantry; he noticed Henry was lingering near the archway. “You can hardly serve as my sous chef lurking in the corner. Come here,” he said, a touch of sympathy in his voice. 

Henry tried not to sigh or stomp or have any other childish reaction as he shuffled forward. His father was debating between some cuts of meat from the fridge as he tried to console him, saying, “I haven’t pulled you away as a form of punishment, darling.” Henry opened his mouth to debate that, or at least say that hadn’t been where his mind was going, but he was cut off with a narrowed look. “Don’t deny that’s what you were thinking. You wouldn’t be moping and dragging your feet if you thought differently.” 

“I guess,” Henry mumbled. He wasn’t  _ moping,  _ though. 

“Now that we are here, there’s no need for you to ever be alone with Jack. And rest assured, I have no intention of allowing you to be left out of any of tonight’s proceedings.” When Henry didn’t immediately respond, staring at his shoe as he toed at the grout of the linoleum floor, Papa playfully nudged him with his shoulder. “Okay?” he asked, his smile loving and warm. 

Henry managed a slight smile back, his mind eased even if he didn’t want to admit he’d been worried, and nodded. “Okay.” 

Pleased at Henry’s brightened mood, Papa directed him to wash up as he resumed getting out ingredients and items they needed to start prepping. A cutting board was placed onto the central island, along with a pile of fennel, shallots, some other colorful vegetable Henry couldn’t name, apples, and a handful of cherry tomatoes. 

While Papa quickly worked at coring the apples, he tilted his head toward a shiny chrome mandolin slicer he’d placed next to the board. “Slice the fennel, half the shallots, and two of the apples with that. Thinly, please, and do be careful. Cut the rest into wedges.” 

“I can do that.” Henry stepped into the space in front of the board that Papa had vacated to do something with a set of small, round baking dishes at another counter. Slicing with the mandolin was tedious-and slightly dangerous-work, certainly not aided by the soreness of Henry’s arms and shoulder, but it was easy enough. 

Partway through his task, he thought he heard some thuds and muffled cursing coming from the other room, but when Henry looked over his shoulder, Papa showed no reaction to the commotion. He watched as his father poured a mixture he’d been whisking into the round dishes before moving on to what Henry suspected was a pancake batter. On the counter space next to the stove was a package of homemade sausage. 

Papa saw him staring. “Would you like some sausage with your dinner as well?” 

“Those ones?” 

Papa hummed quietly, setting aside the batter. Henry was only halfway done slicing with the mandolin, but his father walked over anyway, peering over his shoulder to inspect his progress. Since the tool did most of the work on its own, only needing elbow grease on his part, it wasn’t exactly a difficult job, but the pleased look on Papa’s face had him feeling like he’d accomplished something significant anyway. 

“I believe we have some pork sausages left if you’d like those. It’s what I’d be serving Luca if I thought he’d inclined to eat them.” 

Henry didn’t say anything at first, grabbing another apple half and concentrating on slicing it. Papa remained next to him and smoothly slid out another board, waiting patiently as he peeled and chopped a few cloves of garlic. 

Apple finished, Henry tapped his fingers on the counter. The day’s events had left him feeling shaky and uncertain, but the safety of having his parents home, as well as the calming, ordinary domestically of the last few minutes, temporarily made him bold. “What if I wanted the other ones, though?” 

Papa paused mid-chop with his knife for just a moment before continuing. “You’d have to talk to Will about that.” 

“I’m not asking him,” Henry snapped without thought. “I’m asking  _ you.”  _

There was a long silence while both parties processed what had been said, the  _ tone _ it’d been said in. Henry’s eyes went frightfully wide when his mind finally caught up with his mouth. 

He quickly turned away, mumbling, “Sorry, forget I said anything,” under his breath. He snatched up another hunk of apple, slicing it as fast as he could without taking his skin off along with it, excruciatingly aware of Papa’s quiet, inquisitive gaze as he worked. He ignored it. 

Without another word, Papa took the mandolin from him when he finished and washed it right away in the sink. He returned with another knife that he gave to Henry and began cutting up the rest of the food left on the boards. Henry was slow in chopping the remaining shallots, but Papa didn’t hurry him along. 

When he finally  _ did  _ speak, Henry jumped. “Do you remember how to carve the tomatoes for a garnish?” 

“I think so?” he answered slowly; he vaguely recalled how to do it, anyway. The question was a bit random, but Henry wasn’t going to complain about his disrespectful behavior going unremarked upon and unpunished. Maybe if he just didn’t mention it, it’d be forgotten.

“Do your best,” his father said. He gathered up most everything they’d prepared together and moved to the counter space next to the stove where he combined them in two separate bowls or tossed into a pan. 

Henry looked down at the small knife in his hand and the pile of cherry tomatoes and sighed. When he’d done this with Papa a few months ago, the tomatoes were  _ much _ bigger. Behind him, he could hear his father moving around, stirring two separate pans and readying the baking dishes to go into the oven. By the time Henry had finished butchering the first tomato “flower,” Papa was tossing the contents of the two bowls, putting them aside and then setting up the griddle. 

He’d started on his second squishy red abomination when Papa returned to his side to assess the damage. It reminded Henry more of the Predator mouth than any sort of flower, especially given the way the seeds aligned along the spread petal-flaps. 

Papa gently patted him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go fetch your father and siblings. Dinner will be soon.” 

“Sure,” Henry said and almost managed to run out of the kitchen before he was stopped by a hand on the scruff of his neck, angling him toward the sink. With minimal grumbling, Henry washed his hands and waited until he got a nod of approval before dashing out into the hall, passing Cephy as she trotted into the kitchen. She didn’t even look at him, too focused on following her nose. Before he got far, he could distantly make out his father’s murmured voice and the hum of the fridge being opened again. 

After hearing Cephy’s delighted bark at being fed, Henry headed straight to the playroom. To his surprise, he found only Luca. 

“Where is everybody?” 

Luca lazily tilted his head back from where he sat on the floor in front of the television, staring at Henry upside down. “Setting the table.” 

“Oh,” Henry said. That explained the noises, sort of. “Well, come on, you need to wash up; dinner’s almost done.” 

A clean Luca in tow, Henry found his Dad and sisters indeed setting the table. The cursing, it turned out, had been Dad dragging the wingback chair, complete with a Jack still bound to it, into the dining room and plopping him down at the far end of the table. Abigail was setting out the cutlery one-handed, the other holding Anna, likely as a measure to keep her calm until Papa was done in the kitchen. 

Dad noticed their entrance and beckoned Henry to where he was looming over Jack’s chair. They were in the middle of a quiet, hissed argument when Henry approached. 

“Do what you want,” Jack was saying. “I’m not eating a damn thing.” 

“We can do this the hard way if you really want, Jack, but that would just be upsetting for everyone involved, especially my kids. I think they deserve a normal, quiet meal, don’t you?”

Henry lingered awkwardly for a moment, waiting for his cue as to what he was supposed to do, but the two alphas seemed content to scowl at each other until the end of time. “I think there’s going to be pancakes,” Henry offered. “And like, an apple… salad thing. If meat is the problem.” 

Dad reached out to pat the agent’s arm, not very gently, with a lopsided, easy grin on his face. “See? Nothing to worry about. Now, are you going to play nice when I release one of your arms or not?” 

Henry wasn’t so sure letting the agent have an arm free was a good idea and was considering saying so when Papa appeared in the archway between the kitchen and dining room. “Might I have some assistance plating and bringing out the dishes? Abigail?” 

“Sure thing, Pops,” Abigail said, depositing Anna into her high chair at the opposite end of the table from Agent Crawford, where their baby sister immediately starting trying to shove her entire fist into her mouth. Once Abigail and Papa disappeared into the other room, Dad stared down expectantly at Jack, who was squirming more now that it was announced that food was on its way. 

“You really going to risk giving me a knife? Even a dull one?” Jack asked, summoning up a sneer.

“Nah. Not much more effort to cut up two plates of food as opposed to one,” Dad said with a nod toward Luca, who’d climbed up onto the chair he usually occupied during meals all by himself. Having taken note of where Luca was sitting, Dad said, “Hey, Lucky, scoot over a spot. I’m gonna sit there tonight.” 

_ Ah.  _ Henry suddenly knew where he’d end up being seated, too. When Abigail was home, she and Dad would be on either side of Papa, whose place was at the head of the table. Luca and Henry then sat across from one another, Henry next to Abigail and Luca next to Dad. Now, however, it seemed their father and sister were going to serve as a sort of human blockade between them and the agent. 

Luca hadn’t reached the same conclusion Henry had, of course, and was stubbornly staying put, pale brows furrowed in confusion. “Why?” 

Dad rolled his shoulders with a sigh. “Because I said so, Luca. Move over.” 

“No.” Luca crossed his stubby arms and looked prepared to stay on that dining chair forever. 

Jack laughed. 

Growling under his breath, Dad marched the handful of feet to where Luca was and lifted him up. Impressively, Luca remained perfectly stiff, seated on an invisible chair as he was raised and then lowered where Dad wanted him to be. 

“Don’t even think about moving back.” Dad waited until Luca nodded his understanding before returning to Jack. “You going to keep acting like a child too, or can we get on with this?” 

Jack was quiet for a moment, his jaw set and eyes flinty. He looked ready to start another argument but was distracted by Anna slapping her spit covered hand on the tray of her high chair. She noticed him looking at her and immediately grinned, hiding her face in her hands and giggling quietly as she peeked between her fingers. 

The stubborn resolve in the agent seemed to melt away. “Yeah, alright. Fine,” he said. “Like I said, do what you want. I’m not gonna cause any trouble.” 

“You’d only be bringing it on yourself,” Dad said. To Henry, he gestured toward the general rope explosion in front of them. “Am I going to have to free him completely or do I have some leeway underneath all that?” 

“His wrists are cuffed with a zip-tie, but each arm is tied down individually, separate from the body, then together with more rope on top of that.” Henry twisted his hands together behind his back, feeling more and more anxious with every centimeter his father’s brows rose. 

“Just how much rope did you  _ use?” _

“Everything in the hall closet,” Henry replied, a little sheepish.

Dad blinked and shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “Fair enough. I need you to cut that zip-tie for me. Go get a knife from the—” 

Henry eagerly took out his earlier find, brandishing it with a smug, gleeful smile and admiring the way the agent next to him involuntarily flinched when the knife ended up very close to his neck. 

A hand curled around his wrist and gently steered it away to a safer distance. “Careful, there. Where did you even get this?” Dad asked, turning Henry’s arm over as he got a closer look at the knife. 

“Found it.” 

“Care to be any more specific?” 

Henry chewed his lip, debating the merits of answering honestly versus petulantly. Except for the knife he took with him, there was no way his fathers could know he’d been in the basement alone unless he told them. And while he understood it was better to confess to his wrongdoings before they were discovered or pried out of him, all he ended up saying in answer was: “No?” 

Dad closed his eyes, tilting his head toward the ceiling as he sighed deeply, but dropped the subject—and Henry’s hand. 

“Just cut the zip-tie, Henry,” he said as he investigated the various layers of rope, identifying which he needed to remove to create the new configuration. 

Henry did as he was asked, even taking care not to accidentally nick the skin of Jack’s wrists, though the urge was certainly there. It only took a second, and once he was finished, Henry sheathed the knife and took a step back, removing the temptation to do anything further until told. 

Dad made quick work of Henry’s knots, which wasn’t unexpected since he’d taught Henry most of them, and directed Henry in assisting him in tying new ones. 

What was more surprising was that Jack didn’t try and take a swing once his left arm was loose, however temporarily that was. Henry suspected either the man had better survival instincts than he’d thought or maybe his limbs were too numb to function properly just yet. 

Either way, Dad finished and pulled Henry away from the agent with an arm wrapped around Henry’s chest just as Anna started yelling from her chair, “Papa! Papapapa!” 

Henry turned, as much as the grip around him allowed. Papa was carrying three plates, piled high with sausages and whatever the apples and vegetables had been destined for. Behind him, Abigail held a platter with  _ monstrously _ tall pancakes. Even from this distance, Henry saw Luca’s eyes become wide as saucers at the sight of them. They were practically as big as his head. 

After setting down his burden of dishes, Papa turned a pleasant smile on the agent, who was staring with intense revulsion at the plate of sausages. “Thank you for agreeing to join us tonight, Jack. I cannot begin to tell you how much I’ve looked forward to having you at my table again.” 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anna is adorable, isn't she? 
> 
> Next chapter is a completely normal family dinner. Absolutely nothing   
> odd about it at all.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️ 
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Graham-Lecter's are just like any other family. They sit down to dinner, argue and laugh together, and try not to give the bound victim at the other end of the table more attention than he honestly warrants. 
> 
> Henry, though, just can't help himself sometimes...

As Henry took his seat, Papa and Abigail left for the kitchen once more to return with the rest of the meal, including six small, white dishes and spreads for the pancakes. Dad had started to fill everyone’s plates, cutting up the food on two of them like he said he would. He placed a plate in front of Jack, sausages included, and tossed a plastic fork close enough for the agent to reach.

Once everything was set out and plated, Papa smiled pleasantly as he announced, mostly to Jack, “Souffle pancakes served with clotted cream and blood orange marmalade.” He paused, leaning closer to Luca and said, “Or butter and a brown sugar syrup.” Luca beamed and made to grab for said syrup to drown his cut-up pancakes along with half the table, but Dad intervened and did it for him before any sticky damage could be done. 

Moving on, Papa continued, “Prosciutto wrapped baked eggs, topped with Asiago and garnished with cherry tomato flowers. And finally, homemade pork sausage served with an apple relish and witlof salad.” 

Agent Crawford was already very carefully avoiding the sausages and now steered clear of the baked egg too. He battled with stabbing a wedge of fluffy pancake onto the tines of his plastic fork. “Bit simpler fare than you used to make, isn’t it? Seems like you’ve downgraded.” 

Papa looked amused as he lowered himself to his seat at the head of the table. He pointedly did not respond to the obvious goading until he was well and truly settled. “Naturally,” he replied, completely unruffled. “I’m afraid I have additional time constraints and distractions now than when you last dined at my home. That, and my priorities have changed considerably. Presentation takes a backseat to nutrition and one’s dining companions’ willingness to actually eat what’s placed in front of them.” 

Luca shrunk a bit from the comment clearly about  _ him, _ slithering down in his seat as far as he could go and still reach his plate. Henry bit back a laugh and dug into his egg, noticing that he had a delicately crafted flower. He looked up, wondering if his poor attempts had just been binned after he’d left the kitchen. He wouldn’t have been hurt if that had been the case, but when he glanced around, he saw that sitting in front of his fathers was each of his terrible Predator-tomatoes. Dad noticed the difference in garnishes too after following Henry’s gaze. He plucked the mangled piece of fruit off his egg and popped it into his mouth, shooting Henry a wide grin as he chewed. 

Jack looked strangely disappointed his needling hadn’t garnered a reaction, and Henry thought on that as he slowly demolished his pancake tower. What would be the purpose of provocation, now of all times? He’d been cooperative enough when it came to dinner, although Henry saw he wasn’t really eating. The man had picked at the pancakes and various vegetables, but otherwise, his food remained untouched. 

Abigail saw him staring at the agent. She lightly bumped his shoulder and tilted her body to block his view. “So, no one’s said anything. Just how grounded are you?” 

Henry subtly kicked at his sister under the table, widening his eyes and trying to tell her to  _ shut up _ with his eyebrows alone. He studiously avoided looking at his fathers. 

“We haven’t yet had the opportunity to discuss that,” Papa answered, because of  _ course _ he’d heard her. 

Dad rolled his eyes, stabbing at a sausage to bite off its ends, rather than cutting it. “Very,” he said in response to the question. “We’ll work out the specifics later.” 

“Twenty years,” Luca so helpfully offered, mumbling around a mouthful of food. Papa reached over and gently pressed up on his chin with a finger, safely concealing the stick mess within from the rest of the table. 

“I thought you were on my side.” Henry narrowed his eyes at his brother, who just shrugged and navigated his fork around Papa’s still outstretched arm. He had to rear his head back to open his mouth wide enough for another bite of pancake, looking like an oversized, hungry baby bird. 

“Twenty years is perhaps excessive.” Papa seemed satisfied that Luca got the hint about talking with his mouth full and withdrew his hand to continue with his own dinner. 

“Definitely,” Dad agreed. “Maybe fifteen.” 

Papa hummed as he considered it, tilting his head as he regarded Henry, who was starting to curl in on himself. “Ten, perhaps, with an early reprieve contingent on good behavior.” 

Henry stabbed violently at his plate of food, only barely managing not to scratch his fork against the dinnerware, unamused that his entire family was laughing at him. Sure, they were polite about it, ducking their heads or holding a hand in front of their mouths, but that didn’t make Henry feel any better. 

The exception, of course, was Luca, who cackled loudly, mouth open so wide Henry could count every syrup covered tooth if he wanted to. And he did not want to. Even Anna was giggling a little, spurred on by everyone else, the traitor. 

When he felt his face start to go hot, Henry just tried to concentrate on finishing his dinner, no longer enjoying it quite as much anymore, and ignored the rest of the table. 

At some point while he wasn’t paying attention, the conversation had moved on from making fun of him, lead by Abigail who was recounting her exams from earlier in the day. She sounded positive enough, but Henry didn’t really feel like listening. 

The knife in his back pocket dug into him awkwardly. The sheath wasn’t made for being carried, he suspected. It was meant to sit in a drawer until use, slicing away the scales and skin of a fish, so it wasn’t quite designed to be forgiving when sat on. He’d be tempted to put it on the table next to his plate, but that would only invite comments and questions he didn’t want to answer, not tonight. Henry decided to just deal with the discomfort, wondering if he’d get to use it later, see if it would carve away a mammal’s flesh just as easily as he imagined it would for a trout. 

Next to Henry, Abigail had relaxed in her chair, no longer vigilant on blocking his view of the agent seated at the other end of the table. So as not to tempt her into shielding him again, Henry leaned a bit onto the dining table, resting his head on his hand while he idly picked at the remains of his dinner. His embarrassment from earlier had already faded, but he kept a sullen pout on his face, counting on his parents ignoring such behavior like they usually would. Careful only to look out of the corner of his eyes, Henry glanced down the table. 

Agent Crawford had eaten more of the salad, the parts that weren’t touching meat, anyway, but was now being still, cheap fork clenched in his fist. 

Pushing around a bite of pancake that had become absolutely saturated in syrup and marmalade, Henry said to no one in particular, voice as uninterested as he could make it, “If he’s not going to finish his food, I’ll take it.” Granted, he wasn’t even entirely done with his own, but Henry didn’t think his meaning would be lost. 

Dad choked on a sip of water. “What? What was that?” His voice was hoarse as he tried to clear his throat, prompting a concerned Luca to reach over and pat him on the back. 

“It’s just, if he’s not—” Henry shrugged and vaguely gestured with a table knife toward the man’s plate. 

Agent Crawford’s eyes widened in horror as he registered what Henry was suggesting. He seemed conflicted as to how to prevent such a thing from happening, almost looking like he was considering eating the nefarious links himself to spare Henry such an evil.  _ How kind of the alpha to throw himself on the proverbial grenade, _ Henry thought,  _ if only the man could actually bring himself to do it. _

“No sense in letting it go to waste, right?” Henry added after several tense seconds of silence, trying not to show his growing eagerness too obviously. 

Dad had finally cleared his airway. “Absolutely not,” he growled. 

Papa reached out and placed a hand on Dad’s wrist. “Will—”

He yanked his arm away but leaned closer over the table, forcing Luca to duck down in his seat to avoid getting a little squashed. “No,” Dad hissed quietly. “We talked about this. It’s too soon, I said—” 

“You said we’d wait,” Papa recited calmly. 

“Exactly.” 

“Until they were old enough to decide for themselves. Henry seems to have decided.” 

“The hell he has!” Dad shouted, slamming his hand down on the table that he wasn’t using to hold himself up. 

Face as close to seething as Henry had ever seen it, Papa swiftly scooped Luca off his chair and onto his lap. Henry’s brother barely had time to process his fright at the outburst before being enveloped in warmth and safety. 

Henry, for his part, barely jumped. He glanced at Abigail to his right, whose eyebrows had nearly risen to her hairline, but she pointedly just took another bite of food, staying out of it. 

“By all means,” Papa said slowly, “voice your objection. Forbid him, if you must. But do so  _ civilly.”  _

Dad rolled his eyes and threw his napkin down on his plate with a petulant snarl. “I don’t need a lecture from you.” 

At some point Anna had stopped wiggling and moving around in her high chair and was sitting straight up, completely frozen, her wide blue eyes locked on Dad. Because there was little else he could do, Henry placed a hand on her back and rubbed gently, watching for her breathing to even and posture to become less rigid. In Papa’s arms, Luca was faring a little better, his head turned away from either parent to stubbornly glare at the wall. 

“No, you do not,” replied Papa, voice hard, “but neither do your children deserve to suffer the effects of your anger.”

Dad blinked. He took a measured breath and slowly looked at all his kids. Abigail was fine, although she didn’t look happy, sitting quietly with a hand on her folded knees. Henry was still lending a comforting hand to Anna, whose uncertain expression made Dad wilt slightly in his seat. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, I wasn’t—” Dad turned to Papa finally, face contrite and eyebrows drawn low. “I wasn’t thinking. I just… reacted.” 

And while Papa nodded his understanding, Luca was not so generous and tried to scurry around to the other side of Papa like a spider monkey when Dad reached for him. “Luca, come here. I promise I won’t get mad like that again. It’s been a scary day, even for Daddies, but I’ll be calm now. Lucky, please?” 

Luca had somehow managed to squeeze behind Papa, clutching his sweater in his fists and standing on the dining chair’s seat. Henry was surprised Papa was tolerating such a thing, but he supposed it was better than Luca standing directly on his kidneys or trying to climb even higher. 

Twisting around to look behind himself as well as he was able, Papa quietly asked Luca, “Your father feels bad for yelling and has apologized for scaring you. What do you say, Luca? Shall we forgive him?” 

A moment’s consideration, then: “No.” 

Dad slumped onto the table and sighed, head hung low. “Isn’t he a little old for the whole ‘no’ thing?” 

“I think it’s just a Luca thing, at this point,” said Henry. 

“It is not,” Luca whined, face buried in Papa’s side. 

Henry had trouble holding back a laugh, but he did manage to mouth, “See?” to Dad, who had a small, soft smile now on his face, which was better than the dejected look he’d been previously sporting. 

Sensing Luca’s resolve wasn’t quite as strong as previously thought—and it  _ could  _ be a formidable thing, resulting in days-long tantrums or silent treatments, depending on what had angered him—Dad left his seat to crouch down next to Papa’s, on the side Luca was hiding. Of course, as soon as he was close, Luca tried shimmying sideways along the chair to the other end, poking and elbowing Papa in the back as he went. To his credit, Papa didn’t even wince. Much. 

“Lucky, buddy, I’m sorry. Come here.” Dad tried grabbing for his arm to pull Luca out of the space he’d wedged himself into, but if Dad’s sharp intake of breath and the hand he snatched back was any indication, all he got was a snap of teeth for his efforts. 

By then, Anna had mostly recovered from her shock or perhaps was sufficiently distracted into forgetting it. Dad’s new position next to Papa placed his head at a perfect height for Anna to lean over and grab whole fistfuls of his curly hair, which she delighted in tugging on like she was trying to rip out particularly stubborn weeds. 

Uncomfortable as he was, Papa couldn’t stop from laughing at the worse state Dad had ended up in. 

“It’s not funny, Hannibal,” he grumbled, still trying to coax Luca out while simultaneously freeing himself from Anna’s grasp. “I don’t remember Henry being so vicious when he was this small.” 

“M’not small!” Luca protested immediately, voice muffled yet still offended. 

“Maybe I just wanted to save all my viciousness for when I was older,” Henry said as Dad fell back on his heels. 

He briefly paused in his attempts to untangle Anna’s fingers from his hair and looked over at Henry, expression thoughtful. “Maybe,” he quietly agreed. 

Luca gave a brief, indignant squeak as Papa suddenly scooted forward, leaving him wide open for Dad to snap up in his arms and throw over his shoulder.

“Lemme go!” Luca thrashed, kicking his legs and bashing at Dad’s back with his tiny fists as they returned to the other side of the table. 

“You want down?” 

“Yes!” 

“Okay!” Dad allowed his grip on Luca falter, letting him drop about an inch lower along his back, before pinning Luca’s legs to his chest to catch him. The free fall made Luca scream, but he was laughing by the time he was caught. “Still want me to drop you?” Dad asked. 

“No!” Luca shrieked in between giggles. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Daddy, no!” 

“Alright, I won’t drop— _ whoops!”  _

Luca’s fall of another half an inch was accompanied by a high pitch screech. He was red in the face and wheezing with laughter when Dad finally pulled him up and around his body to hold in his lap, seated at the table once again. 

It was only a few seconds before the first hiccup jarred Luca where he sat. Under recommendation from Abigail, he drank ravenously from Dad’s glass of water. 

When they finally seemed to go away, Luca heaved a great big sigh, irritated at the indignity of it all. 

“Better?” Dad asked, running a hand over Luca’s hair, who nodded. “Do you forgive me now?” 

Luca made a point of idly poking at Dad’s forearm while he thought about his answer. Eventually, he heaved another dramatic sigh. “I  _ guess!” _

Dad pressed a grateful kiss to his forehead before transferring Luca back to his own chair. 

“If I didn’t know any better,” said Agent Crawford quietly from the other end of the table, “I’d almost say you were just like any other normal, happy little family.” 

“We are happy, but normal is an ever-changing standard,” Papa said, deftly removing the syrup container from Luca’s over-eager hands; he started to pout before more syrup was added to his plate for him. “What was normal in the past is barbaric by the standard’s of today, and what is now regarded as obscene will be mundane tomorrow.” 

“So you think  _ this-” _ he gestured to their home, the cooling sausage on the dish in front of him, “is going to be considering  _ mundane _ someday?” 

“That would imply I think it to be obscene currently. I do not.” 

The agent snorted in derision. “Of course you don’t. You think you’re above everyone else, that you can do anything you want. Doesn’t matter who gets hurt or killed along the way. How many families you destroy.” 

“The only family of consequence and value is my own, which is not a unique position to have. Even good men, decent men like yourself, Jack, would feel the same.” 

Henry tucked one of his legs under him as he listened and idly wondered just how cold those sausages had gotten by now. Would Papa heat them up for him, if Dad actually gave his blessing? Stone-cold sausage links seemed so ill-suited for achieving such a milestone, but then again, Henry hardly cared  _ how _ it happened, just that it did. 

The agent hadn’t responded to Papa’s comment, so Henry’s father pressed further. “And tell me, what sympathies do you hold for the families you yourself have led to ruin?” 

“What are you talking about? I’ve never—” 

“No? In your entire illustrious career, no mother or father ever found themselves on the wrong end of your justice, torn away from their loved ones? None have been hounded, cornered into doing terrible acts?” 

Dad seemed to catch onto some reference Henry missed and was none too pleased about it, conflicted on whether he wanted to scowl at the agent or his husband. Abigail as well had gone stiff, looking uncomfortable in a way Henry couldn’t quite pin down. 

“I’m not responsible for what criminals do when the law is closing in and they get desperate,” the agent ground out. 

“When the fox chews off his foot to escape a trap, I suppose the hunter is not responsible for that either, then?” 

Jack snorted. “That’s hardly the same thing, and I doubt you really think of yourself as some wild, panicky animal.”

Henry drummed his fingers on the table before deciding to speak up, taking advantage of the brief pause. “We’re all animals,” he said, “but some of us are higher on the food-chain than others.” 

Dad rolled his eyes. “Subtle.” 

Papa grinned into his water glass as he took a sip. Henry couldn’t be sure who it was that had amused him. Still, the floor seemed to be his for a moment longer, so Henry couldn’t help but keep talking. 

“And right now, the trapped animal is  _ you. _ If we left you alone long enough, would you try and chew through your bindings? You could give it a go. The rope would yield to teeth eventually. Metal wouldn’t, though. Even alphas aren’t strong enough to tear through steel. I’ve seen plenty try. How long until you try and dislocate your thumb in an attempt to escape? Until you gnaw the meat of your wrist down to the bone?” 

Henry waited for a response, but the agent was refusing to even look at him. “From my experience, it doesn’t take all that long for either. Half a day, for the thumb. Give or take a few hours for cowardice.” He paused, thinking it over for a moment. “I don’t think you’d be very cowardly, Agent Crawford. You’d definitely be one of the ones that try sooner rather than later. For the chewing… that’s at least a day. Some wait out more, thinking they’ll be saved. Those that already know that no one is coming are quicker about it, unless they get a little pain-shy after their thumb. It happens, especially if they mess up and break it instead. Once dehydration starts to set in, though, toward the end of the second day? Near anyone turns into a desperate animal, because by then that’s exactly what they are.”

He’d been talking for a while, and once finished, he glanced quickly at his fathers, who he realized had been watching him intently during his entire little speech. Henry hadn’t intended to say quite so much, but no one stopped him, so… His fathers didn’t look displeased either, which was a relief. For once, Dad was the more stoic one, sitting quietly, brows pinched together. 

Papa, on the other hand, was beaming. He turned to Dad and said, in wonderment, “Do you still doubt his readiness, Will?” 

Dad shook his head. “I- no. Have you been taking  _ notes?”  _

“Sometimes, but I just… pay attention, I guess.” Henry prided himself on being a good student, especially when it came to his favorite subjects. And there was none he loved so much as this. 

Pleased with that answer, Papa smiled as he stood enough to reach the plate holding a few uneaten sausages and paused, holding it a few inches above the table. “Will?” 

Dad came the closest Henry had ever seen to squirming, looking between the plate, Henry, and Papa. “I don’t- you’re  _ sure _ it won’t, I don’t know, affect his development?” 

“Yes, Will, I’m sure. The greatest risks come with consuming the brain.” 

“And that’s—” 

“Not brain.”

“Okay,” Dad exhaled, but it wasn’t quite acceptance. He caught Henry’s eyes and held them intensely, desperately. “You need to be positive about this, Henry. I know I say this a lot, but this? There’s no—” 

“I  _ know,  _ Dad. I understand. I promise, I quite literally know how the sausage is made.” 

The hovering plate shook a little with Papa’s silent chuckling, even though he tried to hide it. 

Across the table, Luca looked restless, having not yet been given permission to leave, but he seemed interested enough in the proceedings, looking between the dish of meat held aloft and the now sputtering, swearing alpha a few feet away who was being largely ignored. Henry thought he heard something like “no, don’t do it” and “you can’t” among other pointless exclamations. 

Finally,  _ finally, _ after what seemed like ages of internal debate, Dad nodded, slumping back in his chair. “Alright. Okay. He can—” he tiredly waved his hand toward the meat in question. 

Henry tried not to bounce in his seat, and although he wasn’t even remotely hungry anymore, having eaten nearly all his dinner tonight, he eyed the plate as it was carefully placed in front of him like he was starving. 

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t offer to make something more worthy of the occasion. Anything you’d like, Henry,” Papa said, fondly combing his fingers through Henry’s hair, pushing the curls away from his face. 

Henry felt the weight of all the eyes in the room on him, a mix of anticipation, pride, worry, and growing outrage. He carefully cut a slice off one of the sausages. “No,” he told his father. “This is exactly what I want.”

He raised his fork to his mouth, delighted to look up and see Agent Crawford’s repulsed expression, and held the agent’s gaze as he took a bite. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for missing Tuesday's update! If you've checked my tumblr, you know my hands have been giving me trouble lately. If they don't improve soon, I might need to cut back to once a week posting, to reduce the strain. Hopefully it doesn't have to come to that!  
>   
> Also, now that we're halfway through this particular story, it seems a good a  
> time as any to let y'all know I have more planned for Henry and his family! :) 
> 
> Dinner constructed with the aide of [Petronia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia). Thank you!! I fretted over what Hannibal should cook for far longer than I probably needed to. 
> 
> _Modified from the following recipes:_  
> [Japanese Souffle Pancakes](https://kirbiecravings.com/2017/03/japanese-souffle-pancakes.html)  
> [Jamón and Manchego baked eggs](https://www.gourmettraveller.com.au/recipes/browse-all/jamon-and-manchego-baked-eggs-10068)  
> [Pork and fennel sausages with apple relish](https://www.gourmettraveller.com.au/recipes/browse-all/pork-and-fennel-sausages-with-apple-relish-9759)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️ 
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal "Henry" Lecter IX - officially a second generation cannibal. We're all so very proud. Except Jack, probably, but who cares what he thinks anyway? 
> 
> Also introducing yet another one of Luca's strange little obsessions.

Henry was right; the sausage was  _ completely _ cold, all the way through. He wasn’t sure what else he’d been expecting, to be honest. For all the drama surrounding his decision, once chewed and swallowed, it had about all the gravitas and significance of eating a chicken nugget. At least it tasted better.

Still, it was as important a rite of passage as the first time he watched the life drain from a man’s eyes, the first time he held a blade and pressed it to living flesh. Now, this was the first time he had  _ consumed.  _

So, cold or not, Henry cut off another bite, chewed, and swallowed, hardly paying any attention to the flavor—although that wasn’t something he’d ever let Papa know. Right now, it mattered more to him that he took another bite, then another. No hesitation or fear. No regrets. And with the eyes of his fathers on him, a certain sort of breathless wonder on their faces, Henry knew he would never regret this choice, not for a single second. 

But because Henry  _ was _ actually rather full, he only ate the single sausage, quietly laying his fork down when he was finished. 

The ensuing silence was making him feel more than a little awkward, so Henry cleared his throat and tried to find his voice. He mostly failed. “Do you remember…” He gestured toward the plate, as the rest of the sentence didn’t seem to want to follow. How did one even ask that question?  _ That was delicious, who was it? Did they have an equally loathsome brother? _

Before answering, Papa turned an amused smile on Dad. “One of yours, wasn’t it, love? Hardly anything left of use once you were through.”

“Ah, I’m not-” Dad’s brows pinched together in thought as he mentally sorted through their recent hunts. Henry couldn’t remember anything that’s occurred in the basement lately to have been all that messy, so it must have been from one of those times his parents hunted together for a reason other than bringing home a lesson for Henry. 

Finally, Dad seemed to pin down the kill in question, and his whole expression darkened, eyes dashing to the plate of remaining links, up to Henry, and then to Papa.  _ “Shit _ , you should have reminded me before I said yes, Hannibal. I don’t like the idea of any part of — of Henry even  _ touching _ that-” 

Papa just rolled his eyes and moved the dish away from Henry, which took some of the tension out of Dad’s shoulders. “If you think about it, there’s a certain poetic justice to it. A predator of children, preyed upon by a child.” Dad didn’t seem too convinced by that logic, so Papa continued, “Does it ease your mind at all to know most of the mixture  _ was _ actually pork? I wasn’t exaggerating when I said hardly anything was salvageable. I’d almost say you did it on purpose.” 

“Maybe I did.” Dad laughed, a weird and hollow sound. “I really wish you would have told me this was what you did with it.” 

“Now that Henry will be joining us, I’ll be more mindful of it in the future.” Papa entwined their fingers on the table, as good as an apology, and Dad raised their hands to press a kiss to Papa’s knuckles, his thanks. A touching moment, had the alpha at the other end of the table not been actively trying—and failing—to suppress his dry heaves. Or maybe he really was retching and was going to hack up a bite of apple at any moment now. 

Henry ignored the agent—since everyone else was content to—and eyed the plate now slightly out of his reach with a newfound appreciation. Before anyone could stop him, he unfolded from his curled position on his chair and snapped an arm forward, stabbing the two leftover sausage links onto his fork. Because stubbornly shoving the whole forkful into his mouth was probably a childish act, he just took a large, deliberate bite directly off the tines instead. 

The second time around, it was a far more satisfying experience. 

“Just for my own curiosity,” Dad said, watching him with narrowed eyes, “was that to spite me or the meat?” 

“Meat,” Henry answered in between chewing.  _ And you too. _

Dad let go of Papa and threw his hands up, exasperated. “Am I crazy or has he had an attitude today?” 

**_He_ ** _ is sitting right here _ , Henry thought with annoyance, but he tried not to let it show on his face as he continued chewing through his cold sausages. He still liked it better knowing where it had come from, but he was beginning to get uncomfortably full. Skipping lunch and then scarfing down his dinner had perhaps not been his best of ideas. 

Dad would  _ never _ let him do this again if he threw up this particular meal, no matter what the true reason for it was. 

“Children are not immune to the negative effects of stress on one’s mood. He’s been through a trying experience today, largely on his own. I believe that earns him some patience on our part, don’t you?” 

Dad opened his mouth to argue, closed it, then in a frustrated flail, gestured in Henry’s vague direction. “Sure, that’s easy enough for you to say when you’re not the one he’s sassing.” 

Papa caught Henry’s eye at that remark. He smirked, and for one small, sweet moment, Henry thought that smile meant,  _ shh, your backtalk in the kitchen is our little secret, because I am your father and I love you and would never betray you like that. _ Unfortunately, “Not necessarily,” is what Papa actually ended up saying out loud. 

Henry’s punishment just got extended by centuries rather than decades if the flash in Dad’s eyes was anything to go by. Escape was clearly the only solution. “Hey, why don’t I clear the table? It’s probably my turn to do the dishes anyway.” 

It was not. 

With a burst of speed, Henry stacked up all the plates the family had used—even snatching Agent Crawford’s, as he was distracted, still fighting to keep his own scant dinner down—piling them all on the tray that had served to bring in the baked eggs. Altogether, it was incredibly heavy. Henry’s arms screamed in quiet, burning protest, but he managed to get a good handle on the whole thing and was confident in his ability to carry it sans disaster the short distance to the kitchen. 

“No, now wait a minute—where do you think you’re going? We’re not done here.” Dad stretched an arm out to grab ahold of Henry’s sleeve, just barely missing him when Henry twisted and danced out of reach. 

“Dishes!” he called over his shoulder in answer to the rhetorical question and hurried into the kitchen. 

Just before he got out of earshot, he heard a sharp,  _ “Will _ ,” and the thud of a body falling back into a chair. 

A hissed,  _ “What did he say to you?” _ soon followed. 

Henry didn’t stick around to hear how that question was answered. Honestly, it’d just convince Dad further that he was deliberately, specifically antagonizing him that evening. And he wasn’t. He  _ really _ wasn’t. But he also hadn’t been making a conscious decision to please him either, which perhaps was the same thing to an alpha. Henry thought Dad would be used to the distinction by now, having been married to Papa for as long as he had. 

With considerable effort, Henry heaved the overloaded tray onto the counter next to the sink and took a moment to sag against the center island, willing feeling to return to his upper arms and back. It’d been a short walk, but it’d felt like miles.  

After a moment of regaining his breath, he spotted Cephy hovering near her empty food dish. When she caught him looking, she huffed, dancing a few feet closer before retreating meaningfully back to her bowl. 

“Sorry girl,” he said, hip propped against the counter. “No seconds.” 

Her recognition of those words was instantaneous, head drooping in a pout and a low whine escaping her. Inevitably, this was where someone—at this point, they were all guilty—would cave into giving her  _ something,  _ so Henry grabbed one of the thin, leftover pieces of prosciutto that lined the egg cups—Luca’s, most likely. As she was fully committed to her sad, starving puppy act, Cephy didn’t notice Henry’s proffered treat until he knelt right next to her, holding it out in front of her nose. When it finally came to her attention, Henry had no time to react before her entire, wet mouth was clamped around his fingers, the prosciutto down her gullet without even being chewed properly. 

Henry wiped his slimy fingers on his pant leg, laughing as Cephy looked up at him expectantly, licking her chops. 

“That’s it,” he told her. “It’s all gone now.”

Another phrase she recognized, but at least this one produced less sulking. As he was useless to her now, Cephy turned away to slorp down great mouthfuls of water, getting more on the tiny rug surrounding her meal area than in her mouth. 

Figuring it was best to let her out now than be interrupted later, Henry heaved himself onto his feet and went to the back door. He had to yank it open fast when the sound of the doorknob slightly rattling had Cephy launching herself at it with no thought as to whether the path was clear. He watched her run around on the grass in excited circles for a few moments until she must have heard something out in the woods and bolted for the trees. 

With an ear out for any approaching footsteps, Henry returned to the sink and went about scraping off the plates and loading them into the dishwasher, wondering how the night would proceed now that dinner was concluded. Would they take Jack to the basement right away? Papa had said Henry could see the night’s events through, but it seemed possible that Dad might not let him after everything that’d happened. 

When he was almost done with his task, Henry finally heard someone enter the kitchen, but their steps were light and quick.

“You didn’t ask to be excused,” Luca said from somewhere behind him. 

And— _ crap— _ he definitely hadn’t.  _ Good job, Henry. _

Pausing from where he’d been dumping food into the garbage disposal—mostly from his brother and the agent’s plates—Henry turned to see Luca watching him with a particularly nonplussed expression. “You think I’m in even more trouble?” Henry asked with a sigh. 

Luca only shrugged. “I’unno.”

“I don’t know,” Henry corrected, returning to the dishes. 

“Me neither!” 

“No, Luca,” Henry groaned. “Not  _ I’unno.  _ I. Don’t. Know. Separate words.” 

Luca scoffed and approached the sink, getting up on his tippy toes to get a peek. “Are you gonna turn it on yet?” 

Henry seriously wondered what qualities it was that made something pique his brother’s interest, as vicious waterfowl, destructive kitchen appliances, and—in Henry’s opinion— _ demonic _ children’s programming all seemed to hold a special place in Luca’s strange little heart. 

But who was he to deny his brother’s happiness? A quick look at the remaining dishes was enough to know the rest didn’t need any additional scraping, so he looked down at Luca and asked, “Do you want the honors?” 

Predictably, Luca’s eyes lit up with explosive joy, and he bounced on his feet in excitement, the subsequent light show reflecting distractingly off the various chrome finishes in the kitchen. “Can I? Can I, can I, can I?” he breathlessly repeated. 

“I just asked if you wanted to, Lucky. Yes or no?” 

“Yes!” Something occurred to Luca then, and he stopped moving, just for a moment. “Yes,  _ please,”  _ he added, the word drawn out and careful. 

The sheer volume of unsolicited politeness Henry had been on the receiving end of today from his brother was enough to make him grow suspicious. Still, he wasn’t going to call attention to it, afraid to break the spell had taken hold of Luca. Instead, he knelt down and held out his cupped hands, a step up for Luca to climb up onto the counter. 

Luca wasted no time taking Henry’s offer of a boost, and somehow managed to  _ not _ poke Henry in the eye when he grabbed Henry’s face for stability.  _ Small mercies _ , Henry thought, weary as he realized Luca was having trouble wiggling up onto the counter on his own, even with using Henry as a stepladder. 

Henry tried to imagine a blissful time when his arms and back  _ didn’t _ hurt and heaved Luca the rest of the way, taking comfort in the knowledge that gravity would do most of the work on the way back down. Luca squeaked when he moved faster than he was expecting, but he recovered quickly enough and righted himself to a seated position near the switch on the wall. 

Far too late, Henry realized those shoes were dangerously close to his face—and  _ eyes _ —but was able to resist ripping them from Luca’s feet in a fit of self-preservation. Henry leaned against the counter, an arm outstretched and braced against Luca, holding him back slightly from where he was trying to lean over and get a better look into the sink. 

“Ready Lucky?” 

His brother nodded, a finger nearly shaking with anticipatory glee hovering over the switch. “This one?” 

At Henry’s confirmation, Luca flipped it, his squeals of delight almost loud enough to drown out the sudden, gurgling roar emanating from the sink. There wasn’t all that much for the garbage disposal to chew through, but it was enough to make Luca laugh and throw himself against Henry’s arm in an attempt to get even closer, eyes bugging out in eerie fascination. Thankfully, Henry had expected the move and kept Luca well out of danger of falling in. 

The noise always grated Henry’s ears, uncomfortably loud and unnatural, but it was made more tolerable accompanied by Luca’s joy. When the disposal had finished, Henry coaxed Luca back down to the floor, which took some effort when Luca began to make suggestions as to what they could feed the machine next. 

Mostly because he made a compelling argument for seeing what happened when a pair of tongs was dropped into it. 

Henry was haphazardly dumping the last of the cutlery into their caddy in the dishwasher when Papa joined them in the kitchen. He had Anna with him. 

“Luca already reminded me I didn’t ask to be excused. Sorry, Papa,” Henry said over his shoulder. He quickly finished up and just hoped he’d actually used the correct amount of soap as he turned the machine on. 

“I hadn’t planned on mentioning it,” Papa replied. Somehow Henry didn’t quite believe that. “But your apology is accepted nonetheless.” 

_ Now’s a good a time as any,  _ Henry thought. “I’m also sorry for, uh, having an attitude. Earlier. While we were… here.” Henry trailed off with a wince. He was definitely getting bonus points for eloquence today. 

With his free arm, Papa waved a dismissive hand. “That requires no apology. You’re certainly not going face repercussions from me for wanting to assert yourself.” 

_ Really _ , Henry wanted to say but didn’t. Maybe the silence following his snippy outburst during dinner prep hadn’t been as foreboding as it had seemed. Still, he had to ask, “What about Dad?” 

“I’ll talk to him, don’t worry yourself over it.” 

“Kind of hard not to.” 

Papa came just close enough to gently cradle Henry’s cheek in one large hand, smoothing a thumb over his cheekbone. “It will be fine,” he quietly assured before removing the touch and stepping back. For a moment, Henry almost leaned forward, wanting to follow. But as his father took another step away from him, he remembered his panic from earlier, and how he retreated from Abigail in order to calm down on his own. Staying back felt unnatural, when all he wanted to do was hug his father and let his worries drain away. 

But Papa was already on the other side of the center island. 

“Thanks,” Henry said, relieved and grateful that he hadn’t even had to voice this particular need, that Papa just  _ knew _ . 

Luca had gravitated to Papa’s side, leaning into their father’s leg while one of Papa’s hands tried to smooth down his fair hair. It wasn’t really working. 

“So, what now?” Henry asked, gesturing toward the dining room. He hadn’t heard a repeat of the cursing and thumping from earlier, so he could only assume the agent had been left right there at the table. 

“Abigail is going to be taking your brother and sister upstairs while we resume catching up with Jack.” 

Henry hoped that  _ we _ included him. “We’re not going to take him into the basement?” 

“Not yet. For now, we thought it best he stay lucid.” 

Henry nodded, relieved his earlier decision not to drug the agent again had been correct. He was just pondering a way to subtly boast about his fine choice making skills when Luca finally caught up with the conversation, having snapped out of whatever post-garbage-disposal induced state he’d fallen into. 

“I don’t wanna go to bed,” he complained with a flashing stomp of his foot. 

Papa eyed the shoes for a brief moment, perplexed and probably trying to place where the damn things had come from for the fifth time that evening. “I didn’t say you were, darling. Just upstairs. Our guest may become upset and say some ugly things I would not want you to hear.” 

“But-”

“Remember what happened when Abi came home?” Henry prompted. Luca glared at him, likely both for the interruption and the reminder. 

Luca folded his arms and rested his weight back against Papa’s leg. His face was twisted into a stubborn scowl. “No.” 

Henry sighed. He was definitely right when he told Dad that  _ no _ was just a Luca thing. “Yes, you do. The FBI agent growled at me, and it scared you.” 

“Did not,” Luca denied. After a few heartbeats of silence, he said, voice small and uncertain, “Scared you too.”

Henry wanted to childishly repeat  _ did not _ right back at him. But that would be a lie. On reflection, while he’d remained calm at the time, the moment had unsettled him. He’d been nearly giddy when cutting off the alpha’s air with his bare hands, but that excitement hid just how nervous he was. 

And then there was the phone call. The feeling of his chest squeezing in on itself after seeing that photo of Dad. 

“You’re right. I was scared,” Henry said. A great many things had frightened him today; that growl was only one of them. Unfortunately, his admission failed to improve Luca’s mood any. 

The expression on Papa’s face was at once apoplectic and heartbroken, but he smoothed it away before kneeling at Luca’s side. “That is precisely why I need you to go upstairs with your sisters and stay away from what will likely become a very scary situation,” he said gently, kissing Luca’s temple. 

Luca was avoiding their father’s eyes, staring intently at the floor. “Why can’t he just  _ go away,” _ he finally whimpered. 

“He will,” Papa promised. “By tomorrow morning, you can forget he was ever here, if you’d like.” 

Luca nodded, very much liking that idea. Papa pulled him close then, hugging him tight before lifting him single-handedly. Luca squeaked at the sudden height, a noise that made Anna laugh from her place on Papa’s other side, and wrapped his arms around Papa’s neck for balance. 

“Then we’re agreed. Let’s go find Abigail, shall we?” Papa asked his armful of tiny Lecters. 

At first, only Anna answered, excitedly repeating, “Bibi!” over and over again. 

When Papa shifted to return to the dining room, though, Luca pointed an incriminating finger at Henry. “What about Hanni?” 

_ Yes, what about Hanni,  _ Henry thought, echoing Dad’s earlier words. 

Papa glanced over his shoulder and smiled, gesturing in the direction he’d been going with a tilt of his head. “He can help us look.” 

Henry dutifully followed behind, ignoring the glares his brother sent his way. He hoped locating his sister wasn’t his last chance to help out tonight. There was still so much to look forward to.

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Apologies if there's an error or two this update. I am very tired and trying to adjust to a sudden day-time schedule. (Not particularly easy for a creature of the night such as myself, who's still a bit ill.)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry gets some long overdue answers. Will tries to get a few of his own.

As Henry trailed after his father, they passed by Agent Crawford, left behind in the dining room and sitting all alone. His arm had been rebound, this time with some sort of cording. Dad probably would have had to go to the garage or the basement in order to locate any more rope, so it looked like he just used whatever he’d been able to find nearby. More duct tape had been applied to Jack’s mouth as well.

It didn’t take long to find Dad and Abi back in the sitting room. They’d moved the coffee table back to its spot near the wall. Abi sat cross-legged on the couch, a stack of papers to her side that she was pouring over, smiling. Near her feet, Dad was on the floor, digging furiously through the never-ending bucket of crayons, markers, neutron stars—or what _ ever _ it was Luca had weighed the thing down with. 

“Was Jack bothering you, Will?” Papa asked as they entered the room. 

“No,” Dad huffed, sitting back on his heels, and blew the hair that had fallen into his face out of his eyes. Tried to, anyway. “He was… Apparently, when I first went missing, they thought I was dead.” 

“Is that so?”

“Up until what happened a few years ago, they thought you’d caught on, killed me, and fled the country. Found some of my blood that you must have missed.” Dad sighed, rubbing at the spot on his neck where Henry knew his mating scar was. “Did you have to bite so  _ deep?” _

“Yes,” Papa said simply, more than a little smug. 

Henry’s nose wrinkled, and he tried very hard to put the image of his parents bonding out of his mind. 

“Right, of course.” Dad laughed and resumed his archaeological expedition into the blue bucket. Suddenly his hand flew from its depth, shock, confusion, and a tiny bit of alarm evident on his face as he asked, “What is  _ in _ here?” 

Henry darted forward to see if his Dad’s hand was bleeding—he was going to  _ kill _ Luca if there were knives in there—but he halted mid-step, hovering awkwardly on one foot as Papa came closer to stand even with him, unhurried.

Righting himself, Henry quickly glanced at Dad’s hand and, to his relief, saw there was no blood, although Dad was holding it protectively away from the bucket, like whatever was inside may burst out any moment to bite him. And… it might. It was not outside the realm of possibility or precedent for Luca to have smuggled some creature inside the house. Or maybe he layered the bottom with mouse traps. Sadly, that also would not be without precedent, and Henry couldn’t help but fret as Dad searched more tentatively into the bucket. 

He peered closer, tilting the container so the items inside shuffle and slide around. “Is that…?” he trailed off as he reached inside, tugging whatever item he was seeing free from its crayon grave. 

The first thing Henry saw was inch after inch of black antlers before the distinctive shape of the bronze elk was in view. And that… had definitely not been in the playroom, last Henry looked. In fact, its normal place of residence had always been Papa’s  _ study, _ which was strictly off limits without their father’s permission. Henry sincerely doubted Luca had bothered to ask first, the little thief. 

“I had no idea that was in there,” Henry offered immediately. “Or how it got there. Or when.” 

Dad heaved the stupid elk onto one of the end tables, eying Henry and Luca in turn. “And who would?” 

Technically, washing his hands of the statue pilfering already pointed a finger at the real culprit, but that was as far as Henry was willing to go when it came to snitching. Wasn’t like Anna was going to take the blame for it, was she? Still, outright stating it was a step too far, so Henry only shrugged and took a great interest in the painting on the wall closest to him. There was a lot of fruit and flowers and what he was fairly certain was a dead woman. 

Papa looked at Luca who was also doing a very good job at examining the walls, although he was staring at the rack of antlers over the fireplace, on the opposite side of the room. “I don’t suppose you know how the statue found its way outside of my study, do you Luca?” 

For a moment, Luca looked like he was going to deny his involvement but thought better of it. He nodded. 

“What were you doing with it?” Papa asked. 

Luca sighed, an entirely resigned, exasperated sound. Because God forbid Luca ever actually explained himself for any of the ludicrous things he did. “It was lonely,” he said slowly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It wanted to be with the other animals.” 

“The other animals in the playroom?” Papa asked, referring to the veritable zoo of stuffed toys they had in there. 

Another nod. 

Papa and Dad shared a look,  _ fair enough  _ clear on their faces, and shrugged. It was not easy to stamp down the surge of irritation at Luca getting away with breaking the rules, but then Henry realized minor tresprasses being forgiven tonight was actually in his best interest. Besides, they had other things to worry about.  

“At least now I figured out why the damn thing was so heavy,” Dad grumbled, lifting the comparably weightless bucket and delivering it into Abigail’s waiting hands. 

Luca tried resisting having to go upstairs; failing that, he attempted to whine his way into forcing Henry to go with them. To Henry’s relief, neither father gave in, and he watched as the quartet swept out of the room and up the stairs, leaving him alone with his Dad, at least for the time being. 

“Did you know,” Dad said suddenly, startling Henry nearly out of his skin as he’d been expecting to wait in awkward silence for Papa’s return, “that Hannibal got into school in the states on an artistic scholarship?” 

Henry couldn’t recall ever learning that piece of information, so he shook his head, mustering up enough bravery to look up in his Dad’s direction. He was sitting on the couch with the finished drawings they had done today. From this distance, Henry had no idea which one Dad was looking at. 

“I wanted you to attend school, just regular school at first,” Dad was saying, not even particularly at Henry, but at a wall, somewhere beyond his shoulder. “But Hannibal, he said it was too big of a risk, especially after Jack found us that first time. With all the moving, the dangers we put ourselves in… He was right, he’s always-” Dad laughed, unwilling to finish that statement. “So you had to have whatever home education we could cobble together ourselves. Wasn’t sure for the longest time if it’d be enough. Wanted-  _ needed _ it to be enough, to do right by you, all of you.” 

He smiled then, looking up to peer at Henry over the rim of his glasses. “Should have known Hannibal never does anything by halves. Out of everything you could have gotten, from either of us, I’m glad you have this.” 

Curious, Henry approached to see what it was his Dad was even talking about and—oh. It was his imagined tableaux, the kneeling man bound by tape in the forest. His picture wasn’t anywhere near Papa’s level of skill, and Henry was about to say so when Dad spoke again. 

“Promise me something.”

Henry looked up from where he’d been cataloging all the technical mistakes he could see in his drawing. “Sure,” he said. “What is it?” 

“When you’re out there on your own, whatever it is you want to do with your life, if it’s  _ this... _ promise me you won’t get cocky. I don’t care how good you think you are or how long you manage to stay hidden. Hubris will get you caught, every time. It will get you killed. The day you think you’re smarter than the people on your trail is the day you’ve made a mistake you won’t ever recover from.” 

Dad took a deep breath and held out a hand to Henry, beckoning him closer. When Henry obliged, both his hands were swiftly grabbed and held close to Dad’s chest. “It’s all I’m going to ask of you, Henry. Once I would have begged you not to follow in our footsteps, but I think it’s probably too late for that, isn’t it? And I know… it’s in you, just as much as it’s in us. I know better now than to think it can be caged forever.” He kept both of Henry’s hands captive with one, raising the other to cup Henry’s face, a mirrored gesture of what Papa did earlier. “But you are not more monster than man, no matter how it might feel sometimes. You don’t have to let the needs of one sabotage the other. Does that make sense?” 

Henry bit his lip, squirming against the hold his Dad refused to relinquish. He supposed all his father was asking for was a little self-restraint and balance. Still, he wondered where the dire plaintiveness in his voice was coming from. Taking a gamble, Henry asked, “Which did you sabotage?” 

“For most of my life? Might as well have been both. Ignoring and denying one side of myself, trying to bury it completely, certainly didn’t do me any favors. The part of me that empathized so well with killers was the source of more nightmares than I could count. It was so bad that when I was seriously sick, the transition from nightmares to nightmarish hallucinations did not disturb or worry me as much as it probably should have. And by the point it did, I wasn’t in a position to get myself help anymore.” 

“That was when you had encephalitis.” Henry was rather proud of pronouncing that right in one go. 

Dad nodded, tucked some of Henry’s hair behind his ear. It likely wouldn’t take very long to spring forward again. “It was. Not a particularly enjoyable time in my life, what with my brain cooking itself in my skull. Don’t recommend it.”

Henry laughed, relaxing for the first time around his Dad since his parents had returned home. It was nice to see this side of him again, no longer quite so haggard by his panic and worry. He’d missed this. And, Henry thought determinedly to himself, the feeling was not rooted in the relieved apprehension from having displeased his father to begin with. It was a conscious decision, this lighter feeling at the genuine smirk on Dad’s face. 

Because he’d already started asking questions and something about the whole conversation being conducted out of Papa’s hearing had him suspicious, Henry then asked, “So, did Papa do the opposite?”

Before Dad answered, he cautiously leaned forward, craning his neck to get a better look out into the hall, head tilted as if listening very carefully. After a moment, he sat back and finally let go of Henry. “I know we’ve kept quiet about our past, but you’ve got to understand, for the longest time, I didn’t even want to  _ breathe _ our real names, let alone say anything that could have connected us to our crimes and the lives we led in the states. It was just easier not to talk about it, not with you, not with Abi, not even with each other. The only thing that mattered was our future together as a family.” 

He was thoughtful for a moment, face then crumpling slightly in guilt. “Probably waited too long. We could have better prepared you for-” a hand wave in the general direction of the dining room, “all this. But yes, Papa definitely did the opposite. Since it seems like he’s taking his time up there, now would be a good time to get all your questions out, if you have any.” 

Henry didn’t wait a single second before dropping to the floor, more than ready to settle in. He’d only meant to ask one to start, but as soon as the first question was out of his mouth, more followed, almost as quick as he could think of them. “How do you know Agent Crawford? How does Papa? How did you meet? Were you really in  _ jail? _ Why? Besides the museum piece, which of the other kills in that folder are yours? I think most of them are probably Papa’s but-” 

“Just-” Dad held out his hands to stem the flow of questions, looking a tad overwhelmed and more than a little dazed. “Mercy, please. Give me a second here. You asked about Jack first?” He sighed, rubbing both hands on his face as he tried to put together a response. 

“I was a professor at Quantico, the FBI academy. Jack brought me in to consult on cases, then he brought in Papa to… keep me stable. He was a psychiatrist, but I think we told you that much before. The first case we worked on together was…” Dad paused and spared another glance toward the stairs before continuing. “It was Abigail’s father. He’d been killing girls that looked just like his daughter. When we finally tracked him down, he killed his wife, then cut her- cut Abi’s throat. I shot him.” 

Henry had asked about Abigail’s scar once when he was younger, but she’d quickly changed the subject on him. By the time Henry had remembered his curiosity, he’d taken the hint that she hadn’t wanted to talk about it. “Did you kill him?” 

Dad nodded, then tried for a grin, but it was weary and tired. “Alright, that was a bonus answer you hadn’t even asked for. Four in one. What was next?” 

“Jail?”

A groan. “Right. Without going into too much detail, because on top of everything else tonight I’m really not in the mood to get into that right now, that adoring mate of mine framed me for the Ripping killings. I imagine you went through most of that file before we got home, right?” 

“Yeah, I did,” Henry said, “but… why would he do that?” 

His Dad may have been sarcastic when he said it, but Papa  _ did _ adore him. Henry couldn’t imagine either willingly being separated from the other, let alone  _ purposefully _ doing so. 

“He had his reasons,” Dad said with a small shrug, “but I’m not the one that can explain them to you. Anyway, what else had you asked about… Oh, my kills. Before Randall, I’d only ever killed in the line of duty before, and certainly never anything like  _ that.  _ Never intended to do it again, either, but a lot of things changed that night.”

“What changed?” 

“Like I told Jack, it was you.” Dad smiled, eye warm as he spoke. “Up until then, the goal, everything I was working toward, was to finally see Hannibal in jail. But once I knew about you, the idea of keeping any more secrets made me feel sick. I spilled my guts, about everything. In retrospect, it was kind of embarrassing and overwhelming, but I wouldn’t take back a second, not after everything that followed.”

Just as Henry was wondering about how many secrets had sullied his parents’ relationship in their past, Papa quietly added from his position near the hall entrance, “Personally, I regret not coming forth with the truth sooner. If I’d known that was all it took to have you with me, I might have been more forthright from the beginning.” 

Dad startled at the unexpected voice, glaring briefly in Papa’s direction. “Jesus Christ, I need to get you a bell.” 

“Not in front of Henry, Will,” Papa admonished with a smirk.

Dad rolled his eyes at that and pushed off the couch, taking a moment to stretch and suddenly looking far more tired than he had all evening. “Funny. And I don’t believe for a second you would have given up your mysteries until you absolutely had to.” 

Papa shrugged, not denying the accusation as he walked into the room. He held a hand out toward the dining room. “Shall we proceed?” 

“Think Jack’s going to be in any better of a mood? Henry really shook him up at dinner,” Dad said, helping pull Henry to his feet and placing a hand between his shoulder blades, shepherding him forward. 

“I can’t imagine he’s going to be very agreeable after our son’s little demonstration, no.”

Dad snorted at that. “When has Jack ever been  _ agreeable?” _

Papa made a small noise of concession as they all entered the dining room where Agent Crawford was squirming in his chair, pulling against his restraints with little success. They were  _ much _ tighter now. 

With a great exhalation of breath, Dad pulled out the dining chair nearest the agent, falling into it with a heavy thud. He was just close enough to rip the tape from the man’s mouth and dropped it on the table.

Because it seemed to annoy the agent earlier, Papa strode to stand near the wall, just barely within Jack’s range of vision, a specter in his peripheral. He was in view full of both Henry and Dad, however. 

“You’ve put me in a difficult position, Jack,” Dad said with a sigh, hand clasped on the ankle folded over his knee. 

Henry hadn’t been told where to go or what to do but felt it was far too late to try and ask  _ now.  _ Plus, it would poor form to display any kind of uncertainty—at least, more than he had already—in front of the alpha. Making a quick decision, Henry hopped up onto the dining table. It placed him higher than Agent Crawford’s eye line, forcing the man to look up at Henry as opposed to down or straight ahead, like if he’d also taken a seat or remained standing. 

Papa’s face twitched immediately, and he made a motion to shoo Henry off the table, like he did when Cephy misbehaved. Dad ignored both of them, which to Henry was as good as permission to stay where he was. Papa seemed to take the same meaning and gave up, although he didn’t look particularly happy about it. At least Henry was keeping his shoes off the table. That had to count for something, right? 

“It doesn’t have to be so difficult,” said Agent Crawford, a careful, even tone to his voice. “You know what the right thing to do is here, Will. I know you do.”

“I’m not sure we ever had a shared idea of what the  _ right thing _ meant. If we did, it likely diverged a very long time ago.” 

“We did, we absolutely did, when you worked with the BAU. This isn’t you. It’s the bond talking; it’s changed you,” the agent said, almost pleading as he leaned forward as much as his restraints allowed—which was very little. 

Dad shook his head. “Not nearly as much as you’d like to think.” He rubbed at his beard and regarded a spot on the wall for a moment before asking, “How’d you find us, Jack?” 

“Doesn’t matter how. If I could, someone else will. I’m not the only one searching for the Ripper.”

“Except you weren’t just looking for the Ripper, not this time,” Dad said. “Did you feel better or worse when you found out I was alive? Worse, I imagine, especially after what you had to have seen on that security feed.” At that, Dad turned to Papa, some mix of amusement and annoyance on his face. “I still can’t believe that son of a bitch had a silent panic button. Had to have been on its own generator or something, right? Who  _ does _ that?” 

“A paranoid creep, I believe you called him,” Papa replied, tone seemingly neutral but Henry heard the teasing in it. 

“He  _ was!”  _ Dad insisted with a laugh. “It’s a shame we never got to finish with him. Oh! Jack, was he still alive when the cavalry arrived? The specifics were never leaked to the press.” 

There was a bit of a wild gleam in Dad’s eye, which to Henry was always a welcome, happy sight, but he could tell the agent was alarmed at seeing it there. 

“He was,” Jack roughly replied. “He didn’t make it to the hospital.” 

Dad grinned. “I’d tell you not to feel too bad about not saving that one, but I think you probably figured that out on your own. You still haven’t answered my question. How did you find us? With France, we knew when we messed up. That wasn’t a surprise. This, though? Showing up out of the blue when we weren’t even home? Hell of a coincidence, Jack.” 

Here Dad leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he got close into Agent Crawford’s space. “You came into my home when my children were alone. Vulnerable.  _ How?” _ The look in Dad’s eyes had now shifted, something much darker and more dangerous coming to the surface. Henry wondered if it was the predator, having an enemy in its territory, or the father, his children potentially threatened, that was most outraged in this moment. Which would be the most vicious in seeking its retribution? 

“Good old-fashioned police work,” was the agent’s terse, smug reply. 

“Right.” Dad sighed, sitting up. “Because that’s worked so well for you in the past.” For a moment, his face took on a soft quality. One could almost think it was gentle and pleading, were it not for the words that followed. “Don’t make us have to cut the answer out of you, Jack.” 

Agent Crawford swallowed heavily, his body sagging even as his voice carried a steely, defiant edge. “You’re welcome to try.”

Henry’s sudden, giddy clap in response to the exchange was not very appropriate for the solemn mood that had descended on the room, but he couldn’t help it! The direction the night was clearly headed now was  _ very _ exciting. He planned on cutting much more than just answers from Agent Crawford’s flesh. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man! First off, I am so sorry for the length of time between  
> updates. If you've poked over to my tumblr recently, you've seen that  
> a series of progressively terrible and/or inconvenient things befell me.  
> My hands were giving me trouble, then I got sick, then my husband  
> lost his job, and then my computer broke! All in like, two weeks.  
> It's been trying times, folks. 
> 
> But! My hands are 100% recovered, I'm no longer sick, Mr. Katarra's  
> had many promising interviews, and my parents kindly paid for a new  
> laptop. Things should be returning to their usual twice a week schedule  
> hopefully starting next week. I appreciate everyone's patience! 
> 
> If Jack being absolutely miserable is the kind of thing that warms your wicked little hearts, the next three chapters should be especially entertaining for you. ;D
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's festivities require a bit of preparation.

All three adults snapped their heads in Henry’s direction. His elated clapping gradually slowed until it stopped. At least the only one that truly looked displeased was Agent Crawford, who was a delightful mix of shocked and confused.

“Really?” Dad asked, a slight grin teasing at the corner of his lips. 

Henry shrugged, tugging his new blade free to turn it over in his hands. He couldn’t help if he was eager to get the show on the road. He’d been waiting for this moment nearly  _ all day. _

“I want to know too,” he finally said, a lie that was close enough to the truth. 

Henry didn’t care one bit about  _ how _ the agent had found their family. He doubted it was an interesting story anyway. Far more appealing was learning how long the man could hold out before telling them anything they wanted to hear—which, as far as Henry understood—was how torture usually worked even outside of recreational settings. You didn’t so much get the truth as you got what your victim thought they needed to say in order for the pain to stop. The look that came across a person’s face when they realized it was  _ never  _ going to stop no matter what they said or did was always a magical moment for Henry. 

The longer Henry thought about what was to come for poor Agent Crawford, the more he must have been smiling because the expression on the agent’s face was becoming increasingly horrified. 

“Yes, well, try to contain yourself,” Dad said, fond. He looked from the agent, to Papa, and back again. “Moving him is going to be a pain in the ass, but so is cleaning this floor. You sure you’re okay doing it here?”

Papa finally moved closer, causing the agent to twitch some in his chair, and gave the situation a critical eye. “It’s not ideal, but I believe we can work around it. The chair can be burned and disposed of later. Plastic sheeting should do well enough to protect the floor.”

Dad winced at the thought of his chair being burned but didn’t turn an accusing or angry look at Henry. A chair was easily replaced, anyway. Henry wouldn’t personally miss it. The nubuck upholstery always felt creepy to him.

“I can go get some, then,” Dad said. “Should be in the basement still, right?” 

“Should be,” Papa confirmed, digging his keys out of his pocket and unclipping one to place into Dad’s hand.

As Dad’s hand closed around it, he tugged Papa’s arm, jerking him forward into a quick kiss that had them both smiling. “Be back in a sec,” he said, rising from his chair and stepping around Papa’s still form. “Don’t have any fun without me!” 

Normally Henry would groan or complain about having to witness that, but the disgust coloring Agent Crawford’s face made him indignant on his parents’ behalf. Papa hadn’t noticed yet, staring at Dad as he left through the kitchen and out the back door. Henry quietly scooted forward on the table and swept a leg out, kicking the agent square in the diaphragm. Luckily for Jack, however, all the rope surrounding his torso cushioned the blow, only  _ slightly _ knocking the wind out of him. 

Henry had already returned to his previous position by the time the agent’s loud gasping caught Papa’s attention. He definitely felt his father’s eyes regard him skeptically as he paid an extraordinary amount of attention to his knife. It  _ was _ a lovely little blade, if you asked Henry. If he had to wait much longer to properly use it, he was going to start shredding paper again like an agitated parakeet. 

“Are you all right, Jack?” Papa asked, moving to gracefully take the seat Dad had vacated, clearly sitting too close for the agent’s comfort. Or maybe the pained expression on his face was from his ill-cooperating lungs. 

“Fine, just fine.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps you’d like some water?” Papa’s head was tilted ever so slightly to the side, his graying hair falling in a discordant fringe along the top of his face. “It’s a shame you barely touched your dinner. I don’t believe there’s time left for me to prepare anything else tonight. Not for you, anyway.” 

“Not hungry,” Agent Crawford growled. “Afraid I lost my appetite when you let your kid willingly become a cannibal.” 

“Would you rather we allow him to do so unaware and without fully informed consent? That doesn’t strike me as a position you’d take,” Papa replied mildly, an amusingly faux shocked look on his face. 

“Why not? You let half of Baltimore’s elite do it. What difference does it make now?”

“You’ll notice that none of my former dinner guests were my son, Jack. That’s the difference. However, you’ll be pleased to know Will forbade any of our children from partaking until they were of an appropriate age where they could make the decision for themselves. This included from before birth as well, but that was an easy enough compromise to make.” 

Henry learned forward, a hand cupped pointlessly next to his mouth as he stage-whispered to Agent Crawford. “That’s because for the first couple of months, the smell of  _ any _ cooked meat makes him sick.” When Papa clicked his tongue at him in annoyance, Henry teasingly added, “It’s been over a year since Anna was born, and he still can’t stand the sight of liver!” 

“Traitorous child,” Papa hissed, no heat behind the words, and darted a hand out to bodily drag Henry across the table until he fell directly into his father’s lap with an  _ ooph.  _ “There. I won’t be seeing you climbing inappropriately on the furniture again, will I?”

Henry realized his knife had gotten left behind on the table, and he gazed after it with wretched longing. Papa followed the path of his eyes and deftly snatched it up. “Will I?” he repeated, holding the blade away from Henry’s grasp. 

_ “No,”  _ Henry agreed, somehow managing not to sound too petulant about it. When the knife was carefully deposited handle first into his hands, Henry scrambled away. Papa seemed to understand Henry’s need to keep distance as he didn’t look bothered by the speedy departure, merely smiled and recrossed his legs, hands folded delicately on his knee. 

“You know, the Addams Family schtick is a lot less charming in person,” the agent muttered to no one in particular. 

“C’mon, Jack. Even you admitted on more than one occasion than Hannibal is charming.” 

Both Henry and Papa turned to see Dad grinning in the archway, a rolled up bundle of plastic sheeting under his arm. 

Agent Crawford eyed the plastic with apprehension, swallowing before he said, “That was before. He pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. Only saw what he wanted us to see.” 

Dad propped the sheeting up in a nearby corner before sauntering over and draping his arms over Papa, leaning against the back of his chair. “Can’t put all that on him. There came a point you kept the wool firmly tugged down all on your own.” He bent down to plant a kiss high on Papa’s cheek and chuckled a bit as he eyed Henry lurking a few feet beyond the agent. To Papa, he said, “Didn’t take you long to get him off the table, I see.”

“We reached an understanding.” 

“’Stay off the damn table or else’ kind of understanding?” Dad asked with a laugh. He stood back up and looked at the piece of furniture in question with no small degree of dread. “Think we can just turn it, get it out of the way?” 

Papa quickly took in the table and the width of the room, likely arranging it in his mind. “Yes, I believe it will fit.”

“God, I remember this thing being ludicrously heavy. Henry, get these chairs into the kitchen for us.”

Tucking his knife back into its sheath, Henry rushed over to grab a chair in each hand, carrying them in pairs into the kitchen while his fathers bickered back and forth about the exact placement of the table. Dad was insisting he could do most of the heavy lifting, with Papa not trying very hard to argue with him. For good measure, Henry moved the high chair out of the way too. 

He waited patiently in the archway while they heaved the table up and out of the way—with only a modicum amount of swearing from Dad—turning it and pushing it against the wall separating the dining room and kitchen. It took up a good deal of the wall, stopping just short of completely blocking off the entry. His fathers would have to climb over or shimmy sideways to pass between the rooms, but Henry had more than enough space. 

Papa walked over to where Henry was lingering to grab the plastic, far less out of breath than Dad was a few feet away, flushed red and panting. “Thank you for the assistance,” he said to Henry with a quick grin before handing the sheeting over to Dad. 

“Sure, I can do this too. Why not? Definitely not dying over here from your ridiculous table.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Papa soothed, watching Dad start to roll out the plastic. “I stand in awe of your raw alpha power.”

Henry snickered, quickly hiding his mouth behind a hand from Dad’s accusing glare. Across the room, he saw a calculated gleam in Agent Crawford’s eyes as he looked at each of Henry’s parents. 

“You gonna let your omega speak to you like that?” he asked, just the right amount of sneering mockery in his voice.

Henry couldn’t help but bounce a bit on the balls of his feet at the deliberately goading question. Dad paused in his lackadaisical unrolling of the plastic—knowing Papa would go about meticulously fixing the edges to his liking anyway—and sat back on his heels to peer up at the agent. Henry couldn’t see his expression from where he stood. He hoped it was outraged and fiery like he’d seen in the past when something terribly ill-advised had been said about Papa.

However, no such fury surfaced. Instead, Dad turned to look at Papa, who leaned against the wall with his legs casually crossed at the ankle, and they shared an amused look that sadly spoke of no forthcoming violent retribution for the comment. 

“Gee, Hannibal,” Dad said, quirking a brow,  _ “am I _ going to let you talk to me like that? I should do something about that mouth of yours.” 

“You probably should,” Papa agreed with a small grin. Henry must have been pulling a face at the playful tone his parents were using, because as soon as Dad spotted him, he snorted. 

His father went back to unfolding the plastic and said, “Right, right. Not in front of Henry. Probably not in front of Jack either, now that I think about it.” He looked up, and Henry could see the blatantly unapologetic look on his face. “Sorry, Jack.”

Thwarted, the agent said nothing, only scowled. 

“Did you really think that was going to work? Honestly?” Dad asked after a few moments, shoving the last few feet of the sheeting to lay flat. “When you knew me, did I strike you as the kind of alpha who’d be into that kind of domineering crap?” 

“You didn’t strike me as a murderer,” Agent Crawford spat in reply. 

Dad rose to his feet and slipped his glasses off his face. “Again, not true. You thought it once, found the idea believable enough. Is it really such a shock now?” 

“I hadn’t wanted to believe it.”

The glasses dropped onto the table with a quiet thunk. “Didn’t stop you, though. Listen, I’m not bitter about it anymore, Jack. It was a long time ago.” He turned to Papa, arms folded. “You gonna help me move him, muscles, or am I going to have to throw out my back?” 

“Well we can’t have that,” Papa said with a leer. Henry supposed he’d just have to accept they were going to keep making  _ those faces _ at each other so soon after Papa’s heat, but he didn’t have to be happy about it. 

Just as his fathers approached the wingback chair, though, an idea suddenly struck Henry, and he called out for them to wait. When their attention was on him, he clacked his teeth together and gestured toward the agent. 

“He’s not going to bite us, Henry,” Dad was saying at the same time Papa fetched the discarded strip of duct tape and slapped it on Agent Crawford’s face. 

At Dad’s eye roll, Papa merely shrugged. “No sense in giving him the opportunity, is there?” 

“Sure, whatever. How is it our table is twenty times heavier than a fully grown alpha?” 

“It isn’t,” Papa countered, moving where Dad directed him to best and most efficiently lift the chair. Now that Dad wasn’t doing all the lifting himself, there was far less searing and accidental thudding in relocating the agent. Although that was probably helped by the far shorter travel distance, only needing to move far enough to be centered on the plastic that was laid out. 

Dad sighed and rubbed his lower back before walking over to lean against the table, a few feet from Henry. He watched as Papa removed the tape again, the agent grimacing after having the adhesive ripped from his face for probably the eighth time that day. 

“Who knew this deranged killer thing was so much manual labor,” Dad complained, pulling an exaggerated, weary expression at Henry, who laughed. 

“You could always return to teaching,” Papa said, before his brows drew together, remembering something. “You didn’t bring anything else with you from the basement, did you Will?” 

“There is not enough money in the world to get me to teach someone else’s kids again. Mine’re enough. And no, I didn’t.” He stopped there, groaning and rubbing at his forehead. “Shit. If you don’t want to use anything from the kitchen, I can go back.” 

“No, it’s fine. I can find something suitable,” Papa said, almost turning to do just that. He paused and looked at Henry. “Unless you’d like to provide, darling?” 

“Wha- oh!” Henry rushed to take the entire sheath out of his pocket and held it up to his father with both palms, a gesture that felt horrendously dramatic as he was doing it but to change mid-way would have been even more embarrassing. So, he resolved to hold the damned knife like a holy relic and tried not to spontaneously combust from the mortification. 

Papa made a show of removing the knife from its sheath, turning it over and admiring its sharpness, before placing it back in Henry’s outstretched hands. 

“Perhaps he should keep it.” 

Dad raised a single brow at that and pursed his lips in thought before shrugging. “Fine with me. Just do what I tell you, alright?” he said to Henry. “You’re through with taking initiative for now.” 

Henry nodded eagerly and straightened his posture, standing at attention in front of his Dad, ready to follow orders. He pocketed the sheath again and twisted the handle of the knife around in his hands, flipping it between different holds, trying to find what felt most natural and maneuverable.  

“You’re not going to let your son  _ torture  _ me. You can’t,” the agent barked, eyes darting between Henry, his knife, and his Dad. “He’s a child, Will, even you know this is crazy!”

“I hope that wasn’t a potshot at my illness induced instability, was it?” Dad tsk’d at Agent Crawford and circled the chair until he came to stand right behind it. “But even if it was, his being a child is hardly relevant. I was hunting and fishing with my father far younger than Henry. And Hannibal… well, he’d had his own experience with hunting by this age too.” 

Dad stopped speaking to lean over the top of the chair, keeping his arms and face out of reach of the agent’s teeth, just in case. “But I get it, I do. He’s supposed to be an innocent, and we’re dragging him into the darkness with us. We’re perverting our duties as parents to guide and protect, twisting them to suit our own terrible desires. We’re molding the children we’re supposed to be raising to be good, law-abiding citizens into monsters, just like us. We don’t deserve them. But maybe, just maybe, if you get them away from us, entrust their care to decent people, they might turn out all right. Might not be too late for them.” 

Henry briefly looked over his shoulder at Papa, who was watching near the wall a fair distance from Henry. He didn’t seem concerned about what Dad was saying, so Henry decided he wouldn’t be either.

“The meat you can blame on us. A child wanting to emulate his parents,” Dad continued, “and all his talk about watching and participating in our work can be chalked up to youthful boasting. You don’t quite believe it, though, do you Jack?” 

“He will soon enough,” Papa said. 

That made the agent jerk against his bindings, straining to look at where Dad’s head was hanging over the back of the chair. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “Don’t do this to him.”

“I’m not doing anything to him. My son is free to leave the room this very second if he wanted.” 

Henry caught his Dad’s eye then, which put a halt to his impatient fidgeting, some of which was due to the increasingly distressed scent in the air that he wasn’t far enough away from to ignore completely. Dad’s stare was a pair of questions as he took in Henry’s state, fiddling awkwardly with the knife and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

After a deep breath, which unfortunately meant taking in more of the acrid air in the room, Henry worked to center himself. His fathers would not think any less of him if he went upstairs at this point, he knew that. But this moment was his reward for getting through the day, and he wasn’t going anywhere. 

“I want to stay,” he said, voice firm and unwavering. 

“See? Kid’s stubborn; gets it from his other father,” Dad said with a cheeky grin toward Papa, who didn’t deign to acknowledge the remark. “But Jack, if it’s really important to you that his hands aren’t stained with blood tonight, you can make that happen. All you have to do is tell us: what tipped you off? What was the evidence that led you here?” 

When the agent only gained a steely set to his jaw and didn’t respond, Dad sighed and ran an irritated hand through his hair. “Doesn’t have to be only for his benefit. Think about helping yourself. You remember Gideon, don’t you? And I know you can’t forget Lass. We can take as long as we need to get our answers, but I’d rather it didn’t have to come to that.”

The expression on Agent Crawford’s face turned thunderous, and his fury at hearing that second name was immediately choking for Henry. He tightened his grip on the knife’s handle until he was sure his knuckles were turning white, focusing on the ache in his fingers and the trembling the effort caused in his arm; anything to keep himself still, from taking a step back or running to the comfort of his Papa. 

The drugs weren’t holding back the agent’s emotional responses anymore, and Henry was so, so tired of alphas forcing him to be afraid. 

He had nothing to fear. A tied up, angry alpha was  _ nothing _ to him, Henry reminded himself. De-clawed and toothless. He tried to picture being alone with the man, his fathers nowhere to be seen. It was only him, the stranger, and a blade in his hand. It wouldn’t matter how furious the man could become, he could do nothing to Henry. Every breath was at Henry’s mercy. Every twitch of his muscles. Every heartbeat. 

Henry felt his own heart hammering a steady rhythm in his chest, fast and hard, but his breathing was even, the ability to take deep breaths, however unpleasant, was easy and fulfilling. 

He took a step nearer to Agent Crawford. Then another. And another. Each inch closer increased the effect of the man’s anger exponentially. And while it made his heart automatically pick up speed, the only trembling in Henry’s body was in his tensed arm, still tightly holding onto his knife. 

Dad didn’t look up at Henry’s approach. He kept staring expectantly at the agent, one brow raised. “Like I said, this is entirely up to you. Talk, don’t talk. I just wanted you to know for later, once it’s over, that you could have prevented what was to come.” 

“No,” Jack sighed, turning a strange expression on Henry, something almost sad and regretful in his eyes. Like an apology. “I couldn’t.” 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Happy Friday the 13th, everyone! I didn't think I'd be able to get a second update out this week, but I managed to squeeze out just enough extra time to get it done. 
> 
> From now on, pretty much every chapter comes with a graphic violence disclaimer, just so you know! :D
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will wants answers, and Henry is all too happy to lend a hand.

“We’ll start things off easy,” Dad said. “No need to get anything sharp involved just yet. I’ll ask a question; you’ll answer. You lie to me or give a shitty answer, I break a finger.”

“That confident in your abilities to detect lies?” Agent Crawford asked, trying to direct his narrowed eyes at Dad and failing due to limited flexibility. He mostly ended up glaring at the wall. 

“I think I do alright, but I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Let’s get a baseline. How are you feeling, Jack? Comfortable?” 

“Just peachy.”

“See, I was giving you a pass on that one, I really was,” Dad sighed. “All you had to do was be honest. Henry, come here a minute.” 

That made the agent jerk against his restraints, snapping his head between where he could see the barest hint of Dad’s hair and Henry, who was slowly stepping closer to the chair. “Wait! Wait, stop—” 

“Back here, hun,” Dad said, pushing off from the back chair and standing back, slightly to the side. Henry dutifully stepped into the place his Dad indicated, perhaps a bit too quickly to effectively hide his enthusiasm. At least he didn’t slip on the plastic in his rush. 

“Will, stop, you don’t-” Jack’s words cut off when Papa shifted closer, his relaxed demeanor somehow making the agent even tenser than when he’d been directly threatened. Papa said nothing, though, just remained that much nearer, watching the proceedings with a curious eye. 

“Put that away for a minute,” Dad said once the agent’s protests had quieted, pointing at the knife in Henry’s hand. He complied, although he must have started to pout, because Dad took one look at him and sighed. “Oh stop, you can play with it later. Now, show me—don’t do it, just show me the movement—how would you break a finger?” 

Henry reached to grab one of the man’s fingers, whose hands were bound at the wrists with some of the cording Dad had dug up earlier. It seemed a simple enough task, Henry thought, so he took hold of a middle finger, bending it toward the back of the hand. Agent Crawford struggled, trying to yank away from the touch but unable to move even an inch. Henry looked up at his Dad, who nodded and gestured for him to step back. 

“Right, that works. The finger has a lot of give in that direction, though, doesn’t it? You have to bend it pretty far to do damage. What about to the side, though?” Dad asked. 

Curious, Henry tested on his own hands, bending the digits back and to the side, feeling the difference in how they resisted the manipulation. Backward hurt more when pressure was applied, but to the side had no leeway at all. 

He was still experimenting with the various pliability of his own fingers when Dad knelt behind the chair and grabbed for his hand. “Pinky first. Here-” he directed Henry to hold the finger in a specific way, his thumb pressing against the tip while the rest of his fingers braced against its side. “It’s going to require less force this way, since this isn’t how the body is designed to move.”

Dad pressed down on Henry’s thumb, which in turn bent the agent’s pinky to the side, who briefly tried to wiggle and pull free only for his arm to be held completely still in Dad’s strong grip. “This is for the shitty answer, Jack. Don’t overestimate my patience tonight.” 

With that, his touch was removed from the both of them, and he stood. Henry waited just long enough to see the go-ahead nod before wrenching the pinky held within his grasp as far to the side as he could, pushing on the knuckles until he  _ felt _ more than heard the snap, the top joint suddenly bending at a very interesting, unnatural angle. 

To his credit, Agent Crawford did not scream, but he did give a short, pained grunt, the sound of it a bit muffled. Henry couldn’t see his face, but he assumed the man had kept his mouth shut tight. He wondered if he bit his tongue, hoping that would keep him silent. In the past, many had assumed it’s the verbal suffering that their captors desired, the screaming and crying. They thought that, even if they were destined to die, refusing to show their pain was denying their killers something important. Maybe for a different killer—and maybe if people’s confidence in their own inner strength and endurance had any basis in reality—that would be true. 

But his fathers didn’t care, and it would have hardly mattered if they did. Everyone had their breaking point. 

Agent Crawford was panting, his breaths rapid and deep in an attempt to deal with the pain. Dad leaned over to poke at the off-kilter finger, smiling when he was rewarded with a hiss the agent couldn’t stop from escaping. Before saying anything further, Dad circled to the front of the chair, pointing at Henry to stay put.  

“That was one, Jack,” he said calmly, holding a hand up and folding his pinky down onto his palm. “I meant what I said. Don’t fuck around, and this can go a lot faster.” 

“Meaning you just want to get killing me over with,” Agent Crawford growled between breaths. 

“Of course I do. Despite how I might have felt about you at times, I’ve never wanted to see you hurt, not like this. I’d like to think we were friends, once. You’re not leaving me any choice here.” 

The agent sighed. “There’s always a choice.” 

“Would you have tolerated anyone putting Bella in danger? If, oh I don’t know, you discovered  _ Hannibal _ had come into your home while you weren’t there and she was alone? How would that have sat with you?” Henry inched out a little further to get a better view of the fiery look in his Dad’s eyes as he bent at the waist, getting close to Agent Crawford. “You would have been  _ murderous.  _ Nothing could have stood between you and getting at him, right?” 

When the agent didn’t respond, Dad straightened and stood back. “So let’s not pretend there was ever going to be another option. We ready to continue? Let’s try another easy one. How long have you been in Italy?” 

More silence. Sensing that maybe he needed incentive to answer, Henry took hold of the man’s other pinky, not yet applying any pressure. The agent went rigid. 

“Thought you said you were the one breaking fingers, Will.”

Dad raised a brow, leaning to the side to see Henry’s arm had moved. “What did I say about initiative?” 

Henry didn’t release the finger. “That it’s an admirable trait in your first-born son?”

At Papa’s inelegant snort, Dad’s head snapped to glare at his husband. Papa cleared his throat and looked all the world like an innocent who wasn’t even remotely paying attention to the other occupants in the room. 

Dad turned around, annoyed and glowering at everyone. Henry could feel it, especially since Dad wasn’t very far away, but he was more interested in the rush of blood beneath the calloused skin under his fingertips. The wrists were completely obscured in cording, or else Henry would have wanted to reach out and track the pulse there, to follow along as it sped up, skipped, and stuttered over the course of the night. 

“When I say to wait, you wait, Henry. It’s not just a learning exercise this time,” Dad lectured, tone gentle but full of fatherly disappointment. “I need to trust you’ll follow my directions right now.”

Henry wilted slightly at the reprimand and dropped his hand, even taking a step back so he wouldn’t be tempted anymore. “Won’t happen again,” he promised. He did not apologize. Or rather, he bit back the  _ sorry _ that sat on the tip of his tongue, begging to be let go. It was like a constant burn at the back of his mind, a hot iron pressed against his skull insisting that he  _ needed to.  _ But he would not. 

Dad seemed about to complain, probably about Henry’s  _ attitude _ again, when Papa suddenly spoke. “Will, a moment?”

Henry watched as his Dad walked over to convene with Papa on the other side of the room, quiet whispers spoken directly into each other’s ears, punctuated with frustrated, flailing hands on Dad’s part. Eventually, Papa said something that made Dad look at Henry, his expression alternating between soft, proud, and a tad bit irritated. He finally seemed to settle on begrudging acceptance of whatever he’d been told and nodded, returning to stand in front of Agent Crawford. 

“Everything good with the Missus?” the agent mocked. Dad rolled his eyes. 

“I’m not sure who you’re trying to annoy with that, me or Hannibal, but you’re not going to get far with juvenile taunts, sorry. And to answer your earlier question, maybe it would have been more accurate to say, ‘I’ll have your fingers broken.’ Though that makes me sound a bit too much like a mob boss, to be honest.” 

Agent Crawford chuckled, disbelieving. “You’re gonna use the  _ kid  _ as your muscle?”

Dad shrugged, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “So long as he’s effective.” 

“He’s not a tool,” the agent hissed. Any trace of amusement on Dad’s face drained away. 

“Now where would I pick up a tactic like that? Wielding another human as a weapon? I bet you think I’m not taking his well being into account either.” Dad’s eyes took on a shimmering darkness, something cold and empty that looked out of place on his face but felt very familiar to Henry. 

Dad tilted his head, watching the agent’s expression calmly. Waiting for something. Whatever the man had been about to say, it was unwise, and Henry heard his mouth slam shut with an audible clack. 

After another handful of silence-filled heartbeats, Dad said, “Break another.”

Henry wasn’t even going to let himself be bothered by the command, sidelining his desire to fight against one of his instincts to instead delight in another. His hand darted forward, grabbing the previously threatened pinky, and snapped it quickly to the side before the agent could take a breath to object. 

“That was for not answering my question, Jack,” Dad explained over the low groan that followed the break. “I’m going to repeat myself just this once. Make me do it again, and I’m going to be unhappy. How long have you been in Italy?” 

Henry found it interesting that while he could detect a bit of fear in the air, it was hardly noticeable under the overpowering  _ anger;  _ the agent was absolutely saturated in it. Henry supposed that was one reaction to have to this situation. Maybe Agent Crawford had already accepted his fate when he finally saw Henry’s parents in the flesh, and all he had left in him was fury at the men who used to be his friends.

That felt confirmed in Henry’s mind when the man’s answer to his Dad’s question was a growled, “Go fuck yourself.”

Because he wanted to show he could take direction, Henry didn’t so much as twitch at the response, waiting until he saw his father’s weary nod. He took a careful moment to deliberate on his next choice and decided on the pointer finger on the right hand. Based on where the agent had kept his gun holstered, he was assuming the man was right-handed. 

The  _ crack _ of bone shattering in two was still just as lovely as it was the first time Henry heard it, as satisfying as leaping into a leaf pile or toppling a tower of sand. A ruination in mere seconds, as it could never go back to the way it was before, not really. The break may heal, but the evidence it was there will remain forever, a scar carved in bone. 

Agent Crawford’s reaction was much the same as it was for the previous fingers: a low groan, likely through gritted teeth. That was fine. Henry knew there were hours and hours left in the night, and a great many things they could try before dawn broke. 

For now, the agent still had seven fingers left. 

“Alright,” Dad said, running a hand through his hair with an exasperated sigh. “What brought you here, Jack? How’d you catch our scent?” 

“Never lost it,” Agent Crawford panted.

“Nope. Another, Henry.”

For Symmetry’s sake, Henry broke the left pointer as well. 

“I  _ know _ you lost track of us for a while there, Jack. I told you not to lie to me. Actually, that was two questions, wasn’t it?” Dad’s only signal there was a slightly raised brow, but it seemed like permission enough to Henry. He had worked out a sequence in his mind and went for the right thumb, which took two wrenches to break properly, since the angle was awkward. The agent’s hands were pinned to the back of the chair, palms down and thumbs touching. 

“God _ damnit.  _ It was- shit, just wait. Someone got in touch a few years ago, an inspector in Florence.” The agent’s words were halting, falling out in between breaths like it took too much concentration to fill his lungs to be able to speak and breathe at the same time. 

“This should be simple to answer, then. What was his name?”

“Pazzi.” 

That must have meant something, because Henry saw his fathers react with an amusingly synchronized huff of irritation. 

“Why’d it take this long for you to follow up on that?” Dad asked. 

When he wasn’t immediately answered, Henry received the go-ahead for another finger. The right middle one this time. 

“Son of a -”

“Hey now,” Dad said, interrupting the shout of pain. “That’s not something you want to finish.” 

The agent gulped, swallowing down whatever expletive he had on his tongue, and groaned when his hands twitched, a cascading wave of pain with every involuntary spasm. “I didn’t lie about Pazzi,” he said, once he recovered. 

“Oh, no, I definitely believe you about that. I know he suspected Hannibal decades ago. I’m more surprised he didn’t contact you as soon as our expatriation hit the news.” Dad paused to crack his neck with a satisfied groan. “Not sure how many times I have to stress how little tolerance I have for any bullshit right now. We’re going to have to escalate things if you insist on trying my patience.” 

“I wasn’t,” Agent Crawford gasped out. “Just give me a minute, alright?” 

“Not particularly inclined to give you much of anything, Jack,” Dad said with a shrug. He raised a hand to signal Henry like a fickle Roman emperor, the dramatic nature of the gesture making Henry have to bite back a giggle. 

As soon as his fingers grabbed onto the agent’s other thumb, the man called out, finally a bit of panic creeping into his voice, “It was after France! He contacted me after it leaked to the press that The Ripper was killing again.” 

It wasn’t an answer to a question Dad has asked, so Henry was going to break the finger anyway, but Dad held up a hand in a signal to stop. Obediently, Henry let go and stepped back again. 

“Go on.” Dad tapped his foot loudly, deliberately. 

The agent only allowed himself a few heaving breaths before continuing. “When I got his email, I didn’t want… couldn’t face failure again, not so soon. He hadn’t seen Hannibal, hadn’t gotten any tips you two were even in the country, so I waited. Followed other leads, all over the place. I figured you had kept moving around for a long time after that close of a call. Guess you settled sooner than I thought.” 

Henry was bitterly disappointed that the agent was starting to feel more cooperative. He’d been looking forward to each stubborn refusal.

At the end of Agent Crawford’s explanation, Dad turned a triumphant grin at Papa, who looked like he was dreading whatever was going to come out of his husband’s mouth next. “Would you consider an  _ I told you so _ to be in poor taste, babe?” 

“Unspeakably.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Papa hissed.

Dad shrugged, turning back to Agent Crawford and Henry. He was still smirking. “Then I guess I won’t say it. That I was right, the false leads would work. But no  _ I told you so’s _ from me, not today.”

“Will,” Papa sighed, looking both fond and like he wanted to strangle Dad. Henry wasn’t sure how that combination of expressions was even possible.

“I know, I know. Priorities.” To the agent, Dad said, “See,  _ that _ answer pleased me. Good job, Jack.”

“You are so  _ very _ welcome,” he replied lowly, his voice as equally sarcastic as it was defeated. 

Henry didn’t hesitate when Dad caught his eye and nodded; he broke the other thumb. The agent swore quietly under his breath, pained fingers twitching. 

“I’ll tolerate a bit of attitude from my son, Jack. But I don’t have to from you,” Dad said. “Henry, how many chances does he have until we have to get creative?” 

“Three.”

Dad whistled, rocked back on his heels. “Not a lot. Lightning round, then. Why’d you show up alone?”

No answer.

_ Snap.  _ The agent grunted in pain but was otherwise quiet. 

“How long have you been watching the house?”

Silence.

_ Snap.  _ Another muttered curse. 

Dad rubbed his beard in thought before gesturing for Papa to come up from where he’d been lurking on the outskirts of their little scene. He strode forward, halting when Dad snagged an arm around his waist, holding him close. 

At Papa’s approach, the agent tried to resume his thrashing, only to find every movement jostled his mangled hands. It didn’t take long for him to stop. 

“You destroy  _ everything _ you touch,” Agent Crawford spat. Whatever furious, hateful expression was on the agent’s face wasn’t enough to make much of an impression on Henry’s fathers, who were staring down at him placidly, almost bored. “And when you’re finally brought in, I’m not going to let them accept some insanity plea. I’m going to make sure you get the goddamn  _ needle.” _

“I very much doubt that, Jack,” Papa replied. “If for no other reason than I would never allow myself to be apprehended and separated from my family.”

“Allow yourself,” Agent Crawford repeated with a laugh. “Maybe I’ll just kill you myself, then. Do the world a favor.” 

Henry’s hand moved without much input from his brain, breaking the last remaining finger in a rush of impulsive fury. 

Neither of his fathers had been bothered by the threat, not that he could see, but neither did they voice any objection to what Henry had done. 

“I should have expected this,” Dad sighed, suddenly agitated. “We’re not going to get anything out of him, Hannibal. What if—”

“We’re certainly not going to gain anything by giving up now.” Papa turned a sympathetic look on Dad, who in the last few seconds had descended into an absolutely wretched state. “I can understand your hesitation to proceed further. Despite Jack’s violation of our home, the idea of causing him irreparable harm is distressing to you.”

Dad inhaled deeply, an attempt to calm himself or allow Papa’s nearness to calm him, Henry couldn’t say which. He looked between the agent, panting from his most recent injury, and his husband, indecision plain on his face.

“I-” he stopped, licked his lips. “Before we started, I thought I could, but now… I don’t think I can—”

“I know,” was Papa’s patient reply. 

Dad seemed to dither back and forth as to whether he could, or wanted, to escalate the interrogation, before firmly landing on one side. “Find out what we need and end it, please.”

“Of course.”

“Okay.” A shaky nod as Dad confirmed to himself that this was the best course of action. “I’m going to go watch over the rest of the kids. They’re probably still on edge from everything.” 

Papa and Henry shared a brief look, both knowing Dad was going upstairs to seek comfort as opposed to offering it, but that was best left unsaid. Papa just kissed him farewell and asked for his love to be relayed to Henry’s brother and sisters. 

Just as Dad was nearly out of the room, Agent Crawford caught enough breath to call out, taunting, “Running away, Will? Can’t quite stomach what you do to your victims when they have a familiar face?”

Dad paused, a crushing grip on the archway between rooms. Henry listened curiously as the wood creaked under his father’s fingertips. 

“I’m a sponge for death, and you know that, Jack. There have always been those things I could tolerate absorbing into myself and those I couldn’t. Took me a long time to be able to tell the difference, longer still to admit I even had limits. And this? You’re right. I can’t stomach it, so I won’t. Die thinking I’m a coward, if it comforts you.”

With that, Dad was out of the room, his pounding footsteps audible all the way to the stairs, which Henry was sure he took two at a time. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Poor, poor Jack. None of this would have happened if he just stayed in Baltimore. (And things only get worse for him in the next chapter.)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal Sr. and Jr. try to extract more answers from Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take note of the new tags. Denailing is exactly what it sounds like, and Henry is an active participant.

“Come here, Henry,” Papa said, once they could no longer make out Dad’s stomping.

He obeyed, circling the chair to stand next to Papa, whose hand twitched to reach out for him but remained still. Once all this was over, Henry would have to thank his father for allowing Henry to make it through the night on his own. It couldn’t have been easy for him to resist offering comfort the way his instincts no doubt called for him to. Or maybe not, given Papa had circumvented his instincts in the past. Still, Henry appreciated the gesture—or lack thereof—all the same. 

There were more pressing issues on his mind at the moment, however. “Dad said we had to get creative?” 

Papa nodded. “Unless you’d rather move on to his toes?” he teased. 

Henry’s nose wrinkled in distaste at the mental image.  _ Gross.  _ “Rather not.” 

“Thought as much.” Papa took a moment to consider something, eying the agent with interest before regarding the rest of the room skeptically. “Do you remember where the toothpicks are in the kitchen?” 

Fairly certain he could at least  _ find  _ them, Henry simply said, “Yes.”

“Fetch a box for us, would you, darling?” 

“That’s all?” 

“For now,” Papa answered, shooing him along with a gentle push to his shoulder.

Henry thought there were countless items that could be of greater use in the kitchen, but he did as he was told, sliding past the obstructing dining room table. The toothpicks he found in the third drawer he checked, buried under various cooking detritus. To save a later trip, he took a moment to cast a brief look around the room and grabbed a heavy meat tenderizer to take with him as well. Just in case. 

Papa was watching for Henry’s return, and his only reaction to the tool Henry deposited onto the table was a barely lifted brow. He held out a hand. “Toothpicks, please.”

Henry gave him the box. Papa removed only one—they were about the length of a finger—and placed the rest in a pocket of his slacks. 

“Your father doesn’t wish excessive suffering to befall Uncle Jack, nor would he want much permanent damage done,” Papa said, tone even and entirely lacking in judgment of Dad’s feelings about the turn of the evening. “However, he left because he knew either, or both, were inevitable, and that I do not share his sensitivity in the matter. And that neither do you.” 

Papa held the single toothpick aloft, pinched between two fingers, looking amused when the agent eyed it with intense suspicion and dread. Truthfully, Henry had no idea what it was for. Eyeballs, maybe? That would be extraordinarily painful. It wasn’t the only delicate part of the body, though; eardrums came to mind as well. But then how would Agent Crawford hear their questions? Stabbing the soft palate of the mouth or tongue would also be horrendous, but that would impair speech. 

Shaking Henry out of his contemplation, Papa went on to say, “Which again makes me question what your real concern was, in not calling us sooner. Were you truly worried about Mrs. Demetto’s ability to spend her last moments with her loved ones?” 

Henry shrugged. “A bit? I don’t know. Abi was going to be home as soon as she got the messages anyway. It wouldn’t have really made a difference when you found out.” 

“Are you worried for her safety?” 

“I think she probably was driving too fast when she left. Other than that… No, I’m not.”

Papa hummed, rolled the toothpick between his fingers. “You don’t think we’re going to kill her?”

“She was dead the second she chose to leave. All I did was give her an extra day. But even that didn’t matter, not with-” Henry gestured toward the silent agent, whose eyes never left Papa’s hand. 

“Jack’s unexpected arrival certainly upset all our plans, didn’t it?” 

The agent chuckled then, the sound empty and humorless. “Man plans and God laughs.”

“Was this to be divine retribution, Jack?” Papa asked him. “Are you here as the hand of God, striking us down for our sins? What of our innocent children?”

“Innocent children don’t break a man’s hands without hesitation. They don’t pet knives like a puppy they got on Christmas morning. There’s no possibility for innocence under your influence. You wouldn’t allow it to survive.” The agent’s face was drawn tight with pain, both physical and otherwise. He was sweating and breathing heavily, trembling underneath all of the restraints. Henry wondered if the agony from the man’s hands, strained arm joints, or the compression from the rope was causing him the most difficulty in breathing. The kick to the chest probably hadn’t helped in that regard either. 

“That isn’t true at all,” Papa argued, sounding mildly affronted. “I simply refuse to deny my children’s true talents and interests. I would no more force hunting on them than I would piano lessons.” 

Henry knew that was not entirely accurate, considering the sheer number of musical pursuits his father had persuaded him to try over the years. Once it would become clear that he neither enjoyed nor had any predilection toward a particular instrument, it was abandoned until Papa thought of another he thought Henry would like. Dad had hinted a few weeks ago that the next one was going to be a harmonica—his idea. After that would probably be the bagpipes, which Henry was pretty sure Dad would end up regretting far more than Papa, who would be thrilled with anything Henry pursued, of that he was certain. 

“Hunting,” Agent Crawford scoffed. “Is that what you call murder to make it more palatable, Lecter?” 

“No. It is apt, however.” 

With that, the conversation was over. Papa rounded the chair and stopped at the back, his presence there making the agent tense. He tried to look over his shoulder, but the chair was just too tall and the rope too tight, foiling him every time. 

“What are you going to—what are you doing?” the agent asked at the same time Papa waved Henry over to join him. 

When Henry was close, Papa knelt in one fluid movement to the floor, the plastic sheeting crinkling under his knees. Papa gave a curious poke to one twisted finger, admiring the awkward way it bent at the knuckle. “Is it painful, Jack?”

Agent Crawford gave a low groan as soon as his red and purple finger was touched. He said nothing. 

“Sounds like a yes,” remarked Papa playfully, bumping his shoulder into Henry’s side with a grin. He still had the toothpick. “Hand me that knife of yours, would you?” 

Reluctant to let it go, Henry slowly removed it from its sheath and handed it over to his father, knowing all he could do was hope he’d get to have some fun with it before the night was over. 

“I only need it for a moment,” Papa assured, seeing the look that was on Henry’s face. “While the damage done to his fingers is no doubt causing considerable agony, there is always more that can be wrought from the body. Straighten a finger for me, please.” 

Henry did as he was asked and was not especially gentle about pulling the last joint of a pointer finger to more or less lay straight again. He could feel the small, broken bones grinding and rubbing against each other as he moved them back into place. He would have been able to hear it, too, had the agent not begun to scream. 

Tempted as Henry was to tweak a few other digits, see which breakage could elicit the biggest reaction, he held back and removed his hand, waiting for further direction. 

Despite Agent Crawford’s desperate jerking to get his hand away—he was now muttering various combinations of  _ wait, don’t,  _ and  _ stop _ —Papa held the straight-ish finger steady in his left hand, the toothpick and knife in the other, blade pointed downward. With careful precision, he placed the sharp end of the toothpick under the man’s nail, keeping it in place with his left pinky. 

Agent Crawford knew what was coming better than Henry did, since he was  _ really _ hollering now. 

“Are you watching?” Papa asked. 

Henry thoughtlessly dropped to the floor like a stone, but he hardly noticed the jolt of pain the action sent to his kneecaps. He shuffled as close to the scene before him as he could, watching as Papa lined the knife’s handle up with the toothpick and gave it a hard tap. 

The wrenched a short, sudden scream from Agent Crawford, nearly startling Henry, who had not expected such a strong reaction. 

“Denailing is the forceful removal of the nail, from fingers  _ or  _ toes - a rather old method of torture,” Papa explained, using the exact tone of voice he did for any of Henry’s lessons, regular or extracurricular. “In particular, driving sharp pieces of wood or metal under the nail until it was separated from the nail bed was practiced in medieval Spain. The tools used could be dipped in sulfur or hot oil for added misery, but we don’t need to go that far, do we? Jack?” 

When he wasn’t answered, Papa gave another tap to the toothpick, shoving it deeper under the nail. The agent screamed even longer this time, ending in a hitching, shuddering sob. 

“How many taps until we reach the end?” Papa asked Henry, a ghost of a smile on his lips. It was mischievous and perhaps a bit cruel, and Henry couldn’t help but return it. “Remember, that was two already.” 

“Depends on how hard, I guess. Just like that? More than five, but maybe less than ten?” 

“A good estimation. Let’s see, shall we?” 

Henry had a moment to be worried about how loud the agent was going to be, since there was no way the rest of the family upstairs couldn’t hear this. But both Dad and Abi were up there, and he knew they’d be able to keep the little ones calm. What else was there to do but proceed?”

At Henry’s nod, Papa gave a series of rapid taps, paying no mind to every shout and wail his ministrations pulled from the agent. Henry counted each one. 

After they reached seven, Papa looked more closely at the finger in his grasp. “It appears you were right. Any further and I’d be piercing the flesh of the finger itself. Very good, Henry.” 

Henry would never admit, even under the same torture he’d helped administer, how much that tiny bit of praise filled him with warmth. 

“Do you think you could take over from here?” Papa asked. 

“I think so. Can you set up the next one and show me how hard to hit?” 

Papa did so, retrieving a second toothpick from his pocket and driving it two hits deep into another finger. Eventually the agent was going to scream himself hoarse, Henry thought, but he apparently had strength enough to keep going, louder than ever. To demonstrate the force behind the taps, Papa knocked the knife handle against Henry’s shoulder, only mildly reminding him of the litany of aches he’d had to endure so far today. 

Papa handed the knife off into Henry’s eager hands. He stayed long enough to watch Henry experimentally tap on his own and, satisfied with what he saw, rose to his feet in another smooth motion. 

Knowing what would be required of him, Henry shuffled a bit where he knelt before giving up and adjusting to sit on the floor, his legs folded in front of him. Every minor movement he made as he held one of the agent’s fingers caused a quiet groan of pain, which made it difficult to keep himself still once he was comfortable. But he didn’t move and patiently waited for instruction. 

Blood was steadily dripping from the two injured fingertips onto the plastic, onto Henry’s pants. 

“This round two?” Agent Crawford croaked, once Papa was standing in front of him. “Just going to keep making this kid hurt me until you get the answers you want?” 

“I’m not sure if this stubborn insistence is deliberate on your part, a way for you to insult the way we parent our son, or if you truly can’t tell he’s acting well within his own agency. Perhaps you just refuse to believe it.” 

Henry was beginning to regret choosing such a  _ large _ chair to tie Agent Crawford to. Seated behind it, all he could do was listen to the conversation and watch each drop of blood as it fell. He couldn’t even really smell the blood either, since his proximity to the agent meant his senses were flooded with the agony and anger radiating from the man. Except in those moments immediately preceding a tap from the knife handle, he hardly smelled of fear at all. Henry found that odd.

“Trust me, I’ve got a lot to say about how you  _ parent your son,”  _ Agent Crawford spat. 

“I’m sure you do,” Papa replied, sounding rather bored. “You’d be mistaken if you think I care to hear any of it.” 

“Of course you don’t. Even  _ you _ wouldn’t want to be told you’re ruining any hope for your child to have a normal life. You’re making a perfect little miniature of yourself. Hell, he didn’t even have to resort to cutting up neighborhood cats to get started—you just handed him bodies right out of the cradle.”

A blood spot on the cuff of Henry’s pants was slowly forming the vague shape of South America, which he found mildly interesting. More interesting than his father and Agent Crawford sniping at each other, anyway. Just as he was contemplating how to adjust the positioning of his ankle to better complete the continent, he heard the distinct sound of Papa’s foot thud against the crinkly plastic. 

Henry was fairly certain he’d never seen this particular father impatiently tap his foot before, so he took it was a signal and used the knife handle to drive that second toothpick a little deeper. Maybe it was because Agent Crawford wasn’t expecting it, or he’d had time to simmer down from the previous bursts of pain, but this scream was tremendously loud, enough that Henry was sure it would give him a headache if it went on for much longer. Fortunately, it was short and was followed only by heavy, wet panting. 

“I assume you remember well enough the questions Will has already asked you. I doubt they need repeating. In the interest of expediency, feel free to answer any time you see fit. Henry?” Papa stepped out from the front of the chair to stand where he had a view of both Henry and the agent. “Please, continue.” 

It took a second for Henry to realize he was being given free reign. The moment he did, however, he knew his face probably lit up with a grotesque sort of joy. He shifted his grip on the knife’s handle, careful to keep the blade pointed away from his body like he’d been taught, and gave a series of three quick, light taps to the toothpick, barely moving it at all. It had to have hurt, of course, but it hadn’t resulted in anything more than pained gasps. 

Wary of  _ breaking _ the little sliver of wood, Henry carefully hit it a little harder than he was shown earlier. This drove the toothpick very deep indeed and upgraded the trickle of blood out of the finger to a steady stream. Henry wasn’t quick enough to stop the new, faster flow from splattering his pants and was disappointed to see South America obliterated. 

“Mindful of the angle, Henry,” Papa advised, having come a little closer to watch Henry work. “You want it to stay between the nail and nail bed. It’s possible you’ve pierced the delicate flesh underneath. Try readjusting before your next strike.” 

Papa had been right, of course. Henry slowly pulled the toothpick back a few centimeters—which resulted in some truly horrendous shrieking—until he felt it slip free. He didn’t feel like he had a steady enough hand for positioning the toothpick properly, especially when all the blood kept making it slide around, but he did his best. On the next tap of his knife, far less blood gushed out. 

“Any time, Jack,” Papa reminded the agent, who had yet to cease his torrent of miserable sound. 

Contrary to how Henry normally reacted in the basement, he started to tune all the noise out; it was throwing off his aim. Now that he had a better idea of what he was doing, he wanted to focus on his task, make each strike uniform. Dulling his senses to everything but the feel of the warm, bleeding digit in his hands didn’t worry him. He was sure his father would get his attention when it was needed. 

Soon enough he realized placing the toothpick in the exact middle wasn’t going to completely dislodge the nail from the rest of the finger. Once he reached the end of the nail bed, he slid the toothpick back out—interesting, the different sort of scream that produced—and positioned it more along the edge. Here he needed to be even more careful with his aim, as it was all too easy to hit too high or low given the curvature of the fingertip. Repeating this on the other side almost pried the entire thing loose, leaving it just barely connected at the cuticle. 

Before moving onto the next one, Henry looked up at his father, who was staring down at him with intense pride. “Admirable thoroughness,” was all he said. Henry chose to rather fancifully interpret that as  _ “You are my most precious of creations and my favorite son.” _

When nothing further was said and another toothpick was placed in his hand, Henry understood he was to continue until told otherwise. This time, he selected one of the ring fingers as his next target. He’d remembered hearing once they had more nerves than all the others, could recall testing that claim by biting each of his fingers in turn. Paying attention to see if there was any difference in reaction, Henry aligned the wood under the nail and gave it a more gentle strike than he’d been using, just enough to lodge it into place. Secured, he hit it harder a second time. 

The resulting holler had Henry’s head snapping up, first looking at the great expanse of the chair’s back, then to his father. 

Papa held a finger up for Henry to pause, which he was already doing. Just to be on the safe side, he placed the knife onto the floor beside his bent legs and listened carefully to the agonized yelling that had started to resemble words. 

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that,” Papa said, leaning closer to the agent. 

Curious, Henry crawled along the floor to the side of the chair, trying to get a good look at the man. He was sweating profusely, body racked with sporadic shudders. Henry noted he’d lost some color to his face and desperately hoped the pain wasn’t about to make him pass out. Waiting for him to wake would be boring. 

When he spoke, Agent Crawford’s voice was gravely and hoarse, the words barely an audible whisper. “Two months. Three days.” 

Papa was quiet as he let the man catch his breath, which took considerably longer than Henry liked. He wanted to get back to work already. 

“How long… in the country. How long watching,” the agent finally elaborated. 

“That wasn’t so difficult, was it, Jack?” 

“Go to hell.”

“No need to be rude, not when we were finally making progress,” Papa admonished, shooting a look at Henry that told him to get back into position. 

The squeaks the plastic sheeting made as he scrambled was silly, but Henry didn’t pay them any mind as he resumed his previous spot, taking up his knife again and the most freshly impaled finger. 

“Do you have anything else you’d like to share before we resume?” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Agent Crawford said with a weak laugh. “I’m surprised you’ve wasted this much time. Shouldn’t teach your kid to play with his food, Lecter.” 

Henry was considering giving the man another tap with his knife when a veritable stampede of footsteps thundered down the stairs in the hall, making their way toward the dining room with alarming speed. Before Henry had much of a chance to wonder what was happening, Papa had rounded the chair and swiftly lifted him off the floor and onto his feet, the surprise of which nearly causing Henry to drop his knife. 

Dad suddenly appeared in the doorway, a wide-eyed Anna clutched tight in his arms, with Abi and Luca not far behind. “Hannibal, cars—there’re  _ police _ cars coming down the road. We need to go, we need-” 

A chilling realization washed over Henry, swiftly freezing him in place.  _ Jack hadn’t been alone at all,  _ he thought numbly.  _ I was wrong _ . 

Agent Crawford was laughing and muttered under his breath, “Took them long enough.” 

Dad’s face was a mix of fury and absolute horror, everything he’d ever feared coming true in an instant. Henry couldn’t see Papa’s face, tucked against his side as he was—something he didn’t have the presence of mind to care about at the moment—but he did hear and feel him growl deeply, the depth of such a sound normally only heard in alphas. 

Without warning, Papa wrenched the knife from Henry’s grasp, gently enough to do so without pinching his fingers or cutting him, and blindly slashed at the throat of the bound agent behind them. 

The gasping, gurgling noise that followed was enough for Papa to know he’d accomplished his goal. “Head out the back. Will, your truck should have a full tank. Load it.” Papa pointed with the stained blade toward the direction of the kitchen, dripping more blood onto the plastic beneath their feet. 

Henry watched Dad’s twitchy nod before he headed toward the door, only to briefly stop and grab his glasses off the dining table where he’d left them earlier. His hands shook as he put them on, missing the general trajectory of his face a few times due to Anna’s fierce attempts to yank them from his grasp. 

“We will be right behind you,” Papa reassured, when Dad neglected to get moving again,  sounding more calm than Henry knew he was. 

Abigail lurked in the space beyond the table, having quickly climbed over it. She threw panicked glances toward the back door as she bounced a confused Luca in her arms, trying to keep him calm.

Dad remained motionless, his eyes flicking between Agent Crawford, who was still making wet, sputtering noises, and where Papa stood, tense and rigid, holding Henry by the shoulders. 

“Dad,” Henry said, his father’s attention snapping to his face. “Go. You’ve got the load the truck so we can leave.” It was the only thing Henry was capable of thinking about right now. How long it would take to load all their bags and the supplies from the shed. 

“I’m not-” Dad started to protest weakly, only to get cut off. 

“I trust you will keep our daughters and Luca from harm, Will. Trust me to do the same with Henry. But you must  _ go now _ before I can do what needs to be done.” 

Dad swallowed heavily before rushing forward, ignoring the growing puddle of blood on the floor. He kissed Papa hard, nearly crushing Henry and Anna between them. The desperate terror rolling off Dad was nothing Henry had ever experienced before, and he momentarily felt bad for Anna for having to be so close to it. He touched her cheek softly and kissed the top of her head, hoping it would be enough until she could be properly comforted. 

“Just hurry,” Dad whispered into Papa’s mouth, and then he was gone, leaping over the table with such speed Anna’s laugh could only barely be heard before the back door slammed shut. 

Henry was released just as quickly, and the knife was pressed into his hand. His heart was racing so hard he was fairly certain the outline of it could be seen through his shirt. Every breath was shaky, but they were also even and deep, not yet burning him on every inhale. 

After taking stock of himself, he looked up to find his Papa had already crossed the room and was digging into a nondescript sideboard. As Henry approached, he saw it contained another trick drawer. He watched as Papa took out a weathered Tokarev and some magazines, as well as a small curved knife. The last items he grabbed were a lighter and an old tablecloth, which Henry didn’t even have any time to wonder about before Papa spun around, shoving the latter object into Henry’s arms. 

Henry didn’t know at first what to call the look in Papa’s eyes. Not calm, but certainly not panicked either. It was only after Papa spoke, with only the hint of a smile, that Henry recognized it. He’d seen it not too long ago, the expression Luca wore just before turning on the garbage disposal. 

“Time to implement your Dad’s Plan A, darling.” 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of Act 2! Apologies for anyone hoping for more out of Jack - he wasn't feeling particularly talkative. 
> 
> Things are only going to get more bloody from here, folks. Henry is in for an exciting evening.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal puts Will's escape plans into motion, and Henry reaches a very important milestone on his journey to being a killer in his own right.

Without waiting for a response, Papa marched out of the dining room and into the hall. Henry rushed after him, taking care to sheath his knife and tuck the folded up cloth under his arm. He caught up just as Papa was pulling some kind of rod out of the foyer closet. He quickly extended it, wedging one end under the doorknob and bracing the other on the floor, locking it into place. Finished, Papa grabbed a second rod from the closet, wordlessly handing this to Henry as well, then swiftly stalked off in another direction, trusting he would be followed.

Henry wasn’t sure how much blocking the door could really help, not when it was probable that the full force of the Florence police department was on its way, with who knew how many agents from the American and Italian governments following behind—surely they had battering rams and all manner of infiltration techniques at their disposal? Or maybe they’d just break the windows when the front door proved fruitless. Henry wondered, as he trailed after his father in a daze, if cops carried grappling hooks to swing up onto balconies. 

In the kitchen, Papa had stopped in front of the stove. The burner covers were removed and the top lifted up—Henry hadn’t even known the stove  _ did _ that—exposing pilot lights and the other inner workings. 

Sensing Henry’s hesitant approach, Papa pointed to one of the dish towels and instructed in a tone brokering no argument, “Cover your face.” 

In his hand was the gun from earlier, spun around to be held handle down, like a hammer. Papa waited until Henry grabbed the towel, holding it over his nose and mouth, before smashing down on one of the exposed, thin pipes. Two, three times he brought the gun down in hard blows, until something finally seemed to give, letting off a faint hissing noise. 

Never in his wildest dreams did Henry imagine seeing his father deliberately damage any part of his kitchen. More than anything else in the last few minutes, seeing the poor, battered stove shook something in Henry, a numbing recognition slowly floating to the top of his consciousness that they were never returning to this house.

Papa looked like he was taking care not to breathe, chest unmoving, and pushed Henry toward the back door with a hand between his shoulder blades. Once they made it to the back porch, door shut behind them, Papa grabbed Henry and turned him so they were face to face. 

“Loosen the valves and toss all of the tanks inside. Get them as close to the stove as possible,” Papa said quickly, gesturing to the oxygen tanks that always sat unremarked upon on the porch, leaning against the outside wall, “then put on the security bar, just like you saw me do.” 

Henry nodded. He could do that. He tried to let the towel drop, but Papa pushed it back into place. Henry noticed a bottle of cooking wine loosely held in one of his father’s hands—he must have grabbed it when Henry wasn’t looking—and wanted to ask about it, but he didn’t get the chance. 

“When you’re finished, I need you to run. Run as fast as you can for the truck. You remember where the clearing is?” 

“But what are you-” 

“Do you  _ remember?” _ Papa insisted, to which Henry could only nod again in confirmation, although his sense of direction wasn’t… very good. He’d be able to find it eventually, anyway. 

“Good. Do not stop once the door is barred, do you understand me? Run, don’t wait for me.” 

Henry was going to argue, plead with his father to slow down and explain what was happening, but Papa’d already left his side, taking the tablecloth with him and making his way toward the basement. He looked back to see that Henry was just watching, not acting. 

The angry, “Hannibal!” snapped in his direction made Henry jolt, and he needed no further incentive to get moving. 

Henry dropped the security bar and tied the towel around the bottom half of his face to free his hands. Once secure, he grabbed one of the tanks off the porch, sparing a brief glance to see that his father had already disappeared downstairs, and used it to prop the door open. As swiftly as he could, he picked up the tanks and rolled them across the kitchen floor as close to the stove as he was able, figuring that would be quicker than carrying them all inside.

In the distance, he could faintly make out the approaching sirens. 

Working faster, Henry rolled the last of them into the house, six in total, including the one that acted as a doorstop—and yanked the door closed. Thankfully, he remembered how Papa had manipulated the security device and had it wedged under the knob in only a few seconds. A few tugs on the door yielded no movement at all. 

He wanted to turn, see if Papa had emerged yet, and ask if he did okay, wanted to check to see if  _ Papa _ was okay, but the instruction had been to run as soon as he was finished. 

So he ran. 

Ripping the towel free of his head, Henry had just enough time to see Papa had indeed left the basement and was kneeling at a small lump in the dirt a few yards out from the house, a spot Henry and Luca had both tripped over more times than he could count. Papa was fiddling with something in the ground. As he ran by, Henry thought he could smell wine and saw a small flash of fire. He kept running though, somehow managing not to slow down and try and get a closer look at what Papa was doing. He was glad for it, too, because it wasn’t long before Henry heard the pounding of his father’s footsteps not far behind him. 

Henry’s heart was thundering as he ran for the cluster of trees just ahead of him, which were part of the woods that stretched for miles on their property and beyond. Some of his earliest memories were among these trees, and he knew that, somewhere near the middle of their personal forest, was a clearing, just large enough for a small shack and a near-invisible dirt road. Dad’s truck would be there. By now, he hoped Dad was there too, already finished with loading Luca, Abigail, and Anna inside, along with their bags and supplies stashed within the shack in case of…

In case of this. The worst coming to pass. 

“Henry, faster,” Papa suddenly called out, only slightly out of breath. He appeared and disappeared in flashes, trees passing between them as he ran. He’d caught up and had been maintaining a slower pace to keep them together. 

Henry didn’t know if he could run much faster; he was already  _ so _ tired from the events of today. But he tried, doing his best to remember how to breathe properly, not wanting to become strained and winded, not yet, not when there was so much farther to go. 

Next to him, Papa was looking back in the direction of the house, to Henry, and back again. “We’re not—we’re not far enough,” he said, something alarmingly close to worry in his voice. 

Henry was about to ask  _ far enough for  _ **_what,_ ** when Papa darted out between the trees and scooped Henry up into his arms. Trying not to squirm lest he get dropped, Henry wanted to protest, argue that his legs  _ still worked fine, thanks, _ except the second he opened his mouth, Papa leapt over a fallen log and crashed to the ground, still holding Henry tight. Papa curled around his body, covering Henry’s ears with his large hands. 

“Papa, what are we-” 

Henry’s question was cut off by the reverberating boom that came from the direction of the house. Even though his ears were covered, it was louder than anything he’d ever heard. He felt the sound resulting from the explosion deep in his chest, the vibration scuttling along his aching ribs. It was mere seconds before he could smell the smoke, a mixture of burning wood, chemicals, and disturbed dirt drifting over the expanse of the backyard. 

Papa took only a moment to spare a glance toward the destruction, his grip on Henry wavering just enough for him to crawl up onto his knees and get a look too. 

The house was  _ gone, _ the second floor having collapsed onto the one below it. A pillar of fire was billowing out of the basement doors, almost as high as the flames blazing from the wreckage that used to be the kitchen. Shattered glass shined brightly all over the yard, reflecting the fire toward the evening sky. Chunks of wall and other debris from the house were strewn all across the yard and even into the trees, coming very, very close to where Henry and Papa had taken shelter. Some of it was even still burning, setting some of the nearby underbrush ablaze. If that wasn’t put out, the whole woods could likely go up in flame all too soon. 

Henry had never had such a compulsion before, but right then he fervently prayed his thanks to whichever deity was responsible that Cephy had been far from the house when the evening took its dire turn. 

Over the roar of the fire—and the slight ringing in his ears—Henry thought he could make out voices, indistinct but certainly angry and authoritative. Some of it sounded like it could be English. 

Papa noticed these things too—the flaming underbrush, the voices—and quickly stood, righting Henry onto his feet. 

“Don’t stop,” was all he said before pushing Henry to take off into a run, following after not a second later.

It was both fortunate and dreadful that they were downwind of the house. Suddenly Henry could hardly take in the woodsy scents around him, trying desperately to keep his breathing in check, without also breathing in a partial lungful of smoke, along with the scent of a great many strangers, mostly alphas. 

They were outpacing the blaze, but only just. The wind moved the smoke faster than they could run, steadily replacing their clean air. 

Before long, every inhale felt like it was burning his insides, making Henry’s eyes water. He tried to keep going, to stay focused on putting one foot in front of the other and not getting caught up on rocks or roots, but the internal fire had spread to the muscles in his legs from a lack of oxygen. Without permission, Henry’s body gave out, crumbling onto the ground and colliding with a thud against a thick tree. 

At least now he had something to rest against. 

Papa was at his side instantly, trying to heave him to his feet, but Henry’s legs would not cooperate. 

“You must run, Henry-” Papa started to say, keeping careful eye on the direction of the house—what  _ was _ the house, anyway. 

Henry supposed he was watching for the approach of any police not caught in the blast. He didn’t want to think about the men coming for them, didn’t want to smell them getting closer. He didn’t want to think, period; his head felt light, like it was hardly attached to his neck. Maybe he hadn’t been adhering to proper breathing techniques after all. 

“I can’t carry you the entire way.” Henry read his lips more than he actually heard the words, but he numbly registered the look on father’s face as  _ pleading. _ “I need you to run. Can you do that for me?” 

And oh,  _ there it was. _ Genuine distress from his father, a terrible, suffocating kind of scent to come from an omega family member—even worse from a parent. It made the part of Henry that would always be small and easily frightened want to curl up and cry, wait for someone else to come around and make it all better. 

Papa’s mouth was at his ear, quietly speaking into it, warm breath moving Henry’s hair with every exhale. He couldn’t make out any of it anymore, so loud was the pounding of his heart within his head. It felt like the organ had permanently relocated to just outside his eardrum, beating a rapid tattoo on the inside of his skull, its accompaniment the broken dam that was his rushing blood. 

The smoke was getting stronger, the fire closer, advancing as they both sat dormant. Henry looked over the shoulder of his father—who was still speaking, saying something to him desperately—and saw a shadow move between the trees. For a moment, he thought it was a trick of the dancing light, the movement caused by the flames licking up a particularly majestic, gnarled tree. 

But no. No, it moved again, out of time with the fire. Henry realized belatedly that he’d fisted his hand into his Papa’s sweater, fingers digging into the weaving. He used his grip to leverage himself up and said, loud as he dared into his father’s ear, “Hide.” 

Henry’s other hand was already moving on its own, unsheathing the knife and showing Papa just a peak of the blade held behind his back. 

He still could not hear whatever it was his father was saying, the deafening roar in his ears too much to handle, but he did see the shadow move again, closer. Papa must have heard something, his attention snapping toward where Henry had been watching. Miraculously, he did not argue further. Did not try and tug Henry after him, did not beg him to resume their run. He stepped away, tucking his body behind a tree, away from the direction of the stranger. 

Henry didn’t miss the curious, but warning look in his father’s eye before he disappeared entirely from view—he would intervene in a moment if the situation got out of hand. For now, Henry assumed his father agreed with his gut instinct—that a 10-year-old boy was far less likely to be automatically shot than any unidentified man in these woods tonight. 

Shakily, Henry rose to his feet, bracing against the tree for support. Henry kept his right arm tucked along his side, hand just slightly hidden behind him, and tightly grasped the elbow with his left. Half-collapsed against the trunk, Henry allowed himself a few rapid breaths, too short and too shallow to do much to ease the woozy feeling that was overcoming him, but enough to catch the scent of the alpha now merely feet away, coming just around-

“Help, please,” Henry cried out, throwing a mental dart on what language to use and landing on Italian. Holding the blade turned outward, away from his body, he sagged further against the tree. He looked up, breathing in the smoke and feeling his eyes water from the ache of it. “Help, my arm-”

The man finally stepped into view then, dressed in a black bulletproof vest, the letters  _ FBI _ stitched in white on the front. He wore a helmet and had some black cloth covering his face, a convenient protection for him against the hazy, thick air wreaking havoc on Henry’s lungs. In his hands was a rifle, too long to be an MP5, so it must have been an M4 Carbine. Not an automatic. His eyes were uncovered and wide open in shock at the pitiful sight Henry must have made. 

Slowly, ostensibly so he did not frighten the small boy before him, the alpha slung the rifle’s strap over his shoulder. He made a show of holding his weaponless hands out in front of him before he reached up and removed his helmet, lowering the cloth covering his nose and mouth, although it still wrapped around to the top of his head as well. 

Henry swallowed heavily, gasping for breath. It was no effort at all to whine, a wretched noise even to his own ears—but at least that meant his hearing was returning to normal. 

His lungs burned  _ so _ badly. “Please help,” he repeated. 

“It’s okay. Are you hurt?” Henry had already assumed the man was American, taking the gear he carried into account, but it was nice to have it confirmed. His voice was soft, gentle and light to go along with the young, narrow face Henry could see through the smoke. 

He seemed like a perfectly nice man, but the injured fawn act was taking too much time. Henry just needed him to get closer. 

He poorly stifled a sob. “I can’t find my family,” Henry babbled, trying to keep his voice low in the hopes it would prompt the man to come closer. 

“Your family?” the agent said, and Henry was thrilled to see through his watery vision that he was approaching slowly, hands held out like Henry would spook and run off into the burning woods at the slightest provocation. “I can help you find them. We need to get away from this fire, first. There’re some bad men out here. C’mon, let’s get you somewhere safe.” 

_ Yes, there indeed some bad men out here,  _ Henry thought. 

The man kept his voice so gentle, coaxing Henry to move away from the tree. He would not. 

“Why don’t you come with me? C’mon,” he said softly. 

The alpha stopped just outside of reach. Annoyance flared briefly in Henry, a furious sort of frustration that was difficult to tamp down; he had to focus on redirecting the energy into the violent trembling of his body, hoping it would help him appear more frightened. 

Looking up from the ground, Henry saw the man cautiously take in their surroundings, monitoring the approach of the flames and, Henry assumed, checking to see if there were any cannibals lurking in the shadows. 

“I’m so scared,” Henry whimpered. Either the alpha was an idiot, or the smoke was too strong for him to detect the lie.

Quick to comfort even if he hadn’t understood Henry’s words, the man finally took another step closer, laying a kind hand on Henry’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

The vest, unfortunately, covered much of the agent’s torso. While such things were not entirely knife-proof, Henry wasn’t confident his particular blade would be very effective against it. 

His neck, on the other hand? While the cloth mask the man wore extended down and covered the throat as well, it didn’t look very thick at all. Might as well have been left bare, for all the protection it was going to give. 

Henry reached out with his left hand, using it to make a desperate grab for the agent in front of him. He obeyed the unspoken request, stooping slightly the more pressure Henry exerted. Maybe he  _ was _ terribly dumb, Henry thought with wonder. 

“Thank you,” he told the man in English. The agent was in the middle of some other gentle, placating response when Henry whipped his right arm out and slashed at the throat so kindly brought down to his level. The blade cut through everything beautifully, cloth and flesh alike. 

There wasn’t much of a spray, much to Henry’s disappointment. Most of the blood got trapped within the material of the ski mask—or whatever it was that was covering the agent from the top of his head to his collar. He stumbled backward, hands grasping at his throat, blood slowly seeping through his fingers. Henry couldn’t make out the gurgling sound he’d expect with a slit throat—like he’d heard from Agent Crawford—so, determined to do a job well done, he fell on the man, knocking him to his back. Henry greedily ripped at the mask, tearing the fabric and exposing the sluggishly bleeding wound. He plunged the blade into the ragged slice and started to wildly carve away at whatever soft tissue he could find. Vocal cords, probably. Muscle and arteries and  _ definitely  _ the esophagus. 

By the time he noticed Papa’s approach, blood was bubbling up from the man’s mouth and covering the ground underneath Henry’s knees. He was fairly certain he could see bone through the gaping hole he’d created. Perhaps, if he had more time and a different knife, he could have severed the head entirely. 

There was no time, of course. He allowed Papa to gently raise him to his feet and watched as his father divested the agent of his rifle. He removed the magazine and ejected the round in the chamber before tossing the gun toward the fire, where it would soon be overtaken. However, he did keep the second handgun he found on the body. It was too dark now, both from the smoke and late hour, for Henry to tell its make. 

“We need to go,” Papa said, although he did not push Henry in the way they were headed, merely pointed. 

Henry was glad Papa had any sense of direction in all this chaos, because Henry was embarrassed to realize he’d become completely disorientated. And he’d had only the vaguest idea of where the clearing was to begin with. 

They took off at a run again, Henry having recovered some of his breath and energy. He felt invigorated, like every atom in his body was tingling. He was torn between watching where Papa was going—who ran slightly ahead so Henry could follow easier— watching the ground for devious rocks and roots lying in wait to trip him, and wanting to just stop and close his eyes for a moment, revel in the feeling of the drying blood on his hands.

He wondered why his birthday had not felt like this. Back then, he’d been rested and perfectly content in the bookended embrace of his fathers before taking a blade in hand and yet the experience had not gone as smoothly as he’d hoped. He’d still needed a guiding hand to get the job done. 

And now, Henry was so tired. His lungs burned from the exertion, from the smoke, from the cold snap in the air that he had no choice except to deeply breathe in again and again. The muscles in his arms and legs screamed at him with every step, so overused and strained beyond anything he’d ever experienced. 

Yet all he could think about, as he followed after the swiftly moving form of his father, was that he hoped another one of Agent Crawford’s men caught up with them soon. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> His first murder, all by himself! Our boy is growing up so fast. *wipes away tear*   
>   
> Consider this your early Friday update! I'm really excited about Act 3 and couldn't resist posting again.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This house explosion was brought to you by the letter H and the kind people in my NaNoWriMo discord server, particularly [galacticashaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticashaya) who walked my dumb ass through the process several times until I got it. (Mostly. Your humble author knows nothing about anything, so if any science, physics, biology, or police procedure seems inaccurate... shhhhhhh.)
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry and Hannibal encounter more agents in the woods and make an alarming discovery.

A bullet struck a tree not three feet from Papa’s head.

He immediately dropped, catching Henry who’d still been running and bringing him down to the ground with him. The sudden change had Henry biting his tongue hard enough that he was unable to swallow down all the resulting blood. It coated his chin and dribbled down onto his shirt. 

Papa dragged them behind a thick tree, breathing hard and tilting his head to listen carefully. Scenting was practically worthless by this point, saturated as the air was with smoke and the stench of burning nature. After a tense span of time that lasted a few heartbeats, Papa turned, finally looking down at Henry and noticing all the new blood. His eyes widened with uncharacteristic alarm as he did a frantic pat-down of Henry’s torso, probably checking for bullet holes. Henry spat some more blood out onto the grass and helpfully stuck out his sore tongue for inspection, much to Papa’s relief. 

Since it was still bleeding, Papa quickly ripped a strip of fabric from Henry’s sleeve and pressed the small scrap of cloth to Henry’s tongue, which Henry held in place. It likely wasn’t the level of medical care Henry’s father  _ wanted _ to give for the injury, but they had more pressing concerns at the moment. 

So far, there hadn’t been any more shots fired, but there  _ was _ the distinctive sound of two encroaching sets of footsteps.

Papa kept Henry close to his body as he concentrated, trying to make out exactly from what direction they were approaching. When his head whipped to look from one side of them and then to the other, Henry knew what his father had realized. 

They were being flanked. 

Henry took out his knife, keeping it hidden between their bodies in case the agents moved faster than they anticipated. He got his Papa’s attention and gestured for them to separate. One enemy each. His father was less willing this time to go along with Henry’s plan and shook his head. 

“Stay,” Papa whispered into his ear. After pressing a quick kiss to Henry’s head, he pushed the knife to be held more closely to Henry’s body and rose to stand, agonizingly slowly so as not to disturb a single twig or leaf. 

It was so dark, Henry almost immediately lost sight of him. It took a moment for Henry to realize that the sun had been close to setting shortly after dinner, had probably already begun to. He’d been too distracted to notice. Thankfully that meant that not all of his obscured vision was due to smoke. 

One particular set of footsteps—not his father’s, who always moved silently even when their lives weren’t in jeopardy—was very close to Henry, approaching somewhere to his right. In a matter of heartbeats, he would definitely be seen. He knew his Papa said to stay, but…

Carefully, as carefully as he watched his father move, Henry rose to a crouch and backed away from the direction of the sound, quickly pocketing the scrap of fabric he was holding to his mouth—the wound still bled, but Henry was resigned to ignoring it as best he could. He moved to just around the tree trunk, barely any distance at all but feeling better once he was sure there was something between him and whoever was out there. 

As the agent got closer, Henry slowly inched around the tree, keeping himself hidden from view as the man passed right by him. Henry held the knife a little higher in anticipation, his left hand gripping tightly onto the bark next to him. When the agent was a short distance away, Henry deliberately broke a stick by his foot. 

The agent froze in place. Henry could just barely make out his voice, speaking quietly into a radio, possibly to his missing companion, whose footfalls were suspiciously absent. When there was no movement for several boring seconds, Henry broke  _ another _ stick, its loud snap not unlike that of Agent Crawford’s fingers. 

Henry idly wondered if Jack had bled out or suffocated on his own blood before the house blew up. 

Either way, it looked like that was enough to draw this other agent’s attention, finally. He moved with more caution than the man Henry had killed earlier. Perhaps he’d already seen the body and wasn’t keen on suffering the same fate. 

Unfortunately for him, as careful as he was, he hadn’t seen Henry yet and wouldn’t before it was too late. Henry was very glad for the all-black clothing he’d changed into earlier, helping to hide him in the shadows. The agent was all in black too, of course, but he had the misfortune of wearing some rather reflective goggles, which lit his face up in shimmering shades of orange and yellow when he faced the direction of the encroaching blaze. It had the added bonus of blinding him too, Henry suspected, as the man began to try and angle his face away from the intense light of the flames. 

While his attention was diverted, Henry darted to another tree, pleased that he avoided making any noise. The leaves beneath his feet were soft, likely having been loosened from their branches and made pliable by the recent rain. Everything in the woods stayed at least a little damp for days after a good rainfall. 

Henry positioned himself on the side of the trunk opposite the agent’s approach and waited. 

As the distance between them narrowed, Henry got a better look at the man, determining that this one was much like the last, with a vest, rifle, and everything else. This time, however, he noticed a detail he hadn’t before—their legs were not armored. That was a curious thing, Henry thought. Surely they would have sent better-protected agents to apprehend the  _ Chesapeake Ripper.  _ Henry hadn’t needed to see the file to know Papa was a fiercesome thing, and the fear surrounding him was far from unfounded. Perhaps it went to show that Agent Crawford had not been entirely convinced he’d found his target after all. Cautious enough to order in the calvary should he not return or check in, but not quite enough to have his men properly equipped, ready for the ensuing battle. 

_ A shame for them, really,  _ Henry thought, watching as the agent’s form disappeared behind the tree between them. The very tip of the rifle poked out the other side, followed by the man himself. Henry waited until he passed the tree completely before striking, slashing at the back of his legs, making sure to truly cut into the meat behind the knee, since the ankles were covered by a thick boot. 

The startled cry of pain could not be avoided this time. Henry was quick to scramble over the downed agent, climbing onto his back and holding him down. The man couldn’t use his rifle to defend against Henry, as it had been pinned beneath his body, inaccessible and useless. Instead, he clumsily went for the pistol holstered at his hip, only to be stopped by Henry methodically cutting at his hands and wrists, making his grip slippery with blood. It was simple enough, then, for Henry to grab the gun for himself and keep it out of reach. 

Foiled, the agent tried to buck him off, which would have worked had Henry not responded by slicing at the inside of his elbow joints. Dislodging Henry from his back proved impossible without being able to put any pressure on his arms  _ or _ legs. 

The screaming was going to be a problem, though. Full-throated cries for help out into the encroaching inferno could not be allowed to continue. Henry reached forward and cut the helmet’s straps quickly, ripping it from the agent’s head. It took many tries to tug the ski mask free from under the shirt and vest, requiring Henry to use both hands and hold the knife between his teeth. Grabbing a whole handful of hair in his left hand, Henry yanked the man’s head up as far as his body would bend. Throat exposed, it was as easy as breathing for Henry to draw his blade across it, even if he couldn’t see what he was doing. He just cut and cut until the noises stopped, until he’d sawn so deep with the knife he almost had trouble yanking it out. 

Henry stood on shaky legs, one of his feet nearly sinking into the muddy slush that was starting to form around him, and spat more blood onto the ground, adding to the mush. In one hand, he held his bloody knife, and in the other, the handgun he’d taken off the agent. 

“Told you to stay,” came Papa’s labored voice behind him. 

Henry whipped around to see his father leaning against a tree, wincing slightly but not terribly injured, as far as Henry could tell. He looked like he’d taken a few hits to the body, judging by the way he held his side. But Henry wasn’t too worried—he’d be able to tell if his father had been shot or stabbed. The blood coating his front was definitely not his own. 

“You’ve made another mess, I see,” Papa said, when Henry did not respond to the reprimand. He could only shrug, unable to deny it, and dropped the gun with a thud onto the body. 

“Keep moving.” Papa wasted no time running off again, and Henry followed. They tried to stay off the various worn paths carved into the woods, as it was possible the agents were also using them to navigate the property. Henry would rather not see his father nearly get shot again, if he could help it. 

Thankfully it seemed like the fire had kept most of the police and FBI out of the woods, the three men they’d encountered likely having entered before it had truly spread. With any luck, the next people they encountered would be their family. Dad was going to have a fit once he saw them. Papa was mostly fine, perhaps a little bruised, but Henry’s clothes were tacky and sticking to his skin with blood, some his own. 

“Nearly there,” Papa panted, voice quiet and barely loud enough for Henry to hear, despite running barely half a foot behind him. But he didn’t need to hear it, he could tell that for himself with the way the trees were thinning—even recognized the way some of the branches twisted as he passed them. 

Almost there. Almost safe. Just a bit farther. Soon they could—

Something in his peripheral vision caught Henry’s attention. Henry stopped dead in his tracks. There, on the other side of the clearing, he saw flashing lights. 

Not the lights of a police vehicle. Not flashlights or the burst of a muzzle flash either. 

Tiny lights. Little rainbows dancing and pulsing sporadically, low to the ground. 

Papa noticed Henry had paused, frozen on the spot and staring off into the distance. “What is it?” he asked, trying to follow Henry’s line of sight. 

“It’s Luca.”

“What?”

“The lights. That’s Luca. What is he doing over there, Papa?” Henry asked, nerves threading through his voice to make it a small, quavering thing. 

Papa finally saw it too and reflexively clenched his fists down at his sides before opening them slowly. “I don’t know.” He looked out into the clearing, trying to catch sight of anything reassuring between the trees. But he clearly saw nothing and hissed out a frustrated breath. “We’re going to find out.” 

For the most part, they’d outpaced the smoke coming from the other end of their woods, mostly running in clear air as they traced the outline of the clearing. Somehow, it did little to improve Henry’s ability to breathe. Where before he could take in large—albeit burning and painful—lungfuls of air, now he could scarcely inhale at all. His chest felt constricting and tight as he kept his eyes on the flashing lights in the distance. 

Luca shouldn’t be so far away from the truck. He should be  _ inside _ it already.  _ Why wasn’t he _ , Henry asked himself furiously, the whirling of his mind edging dangerously close to full-blown panic.

Henry didn’t even want to start to wonder where his Dad and sisters were. He chose to believe all four of them were out there with Luca, hiding on the edge of the clearing for whatever reason. Maybe they were waiting for Papa and Henry to catch up?

He shook the thought away, despite the hope it bolstered. That would be stupid—worse, it would be  _ wasting time.  _ The truck should have been loaded and ready to go by the time they reached it. It should have been as simple as he and Papa diving inside and Dad flooring it, getting them as far away from the ruins of their home as possible. 

Halfway to the lights, a wordless cry pierced through the air, nearly causing Henry to lose his footing and fall face first into the dirt. Papa caught his arm just in time, but he didn’t slow or pause to check if Henry had recovered. Just kept running, faster than before. 

They’d both recognized the voice. That had been Abigail. 

There wasn’t any time to think if Henry didn’t want to be left behind, so he picked up his speed as best he could with his shorter legs, not keeping pace as well anymore now that Papa was not staying back for his benefit. The burning sensation in his muscles returned to him as he ran, although it was likely it had never left. 

As the pleasant buzz of excitement from a kill left his body, it was replaced with an oily, roiling feeling deep in his gut. Each of his limbs became increasingly harder to move as they approached the lights. His stomach was trying to twist itself up and out of his mouth, and Henry had to swallow repeatedly in the hopes of keeping it down.

The screaming returned, this time in the shape of words Henry could just about make out. “Stop! Stop, put him down, please, he’s just a little boy, please!” 

When Papa hadn’t stopped and looked like he was just going to charge past the little copse of trees they were still hidden by, Henry lunged forward and grabbed two entire fistfuls of his Papa’s sweater, practically jumping on his back to reign him in. Papa reeled on him, eyes an empty void with how little light Henry had to see by. Under any other circumstance, that feral, incensed look on his father’s face, the barely contained, trembling rage, would have been the most frightening thing Henry had ever seen. Perhaps it still was. Nevertheless, he held on tight, holding a finger to his lips, his face pleading for patience, for planning. 

They were careful monsters, Henry wanted to say. Their actions were thoughtful and measured, attacks calculated. Rashness was not in their nature. And it would not help the ones they loved. 

Henry tugged on his father’s arm, urgently leading him down into a crouch where they could watch the scene before them through the branches. The wind had changed at some point after the house exploded, no longer pushing at their backs. This meant that while their scent fortunately went undetected, they in turn could tell nothing about the small group. It was frustrating for Henry, especially since he could only make out vague shapes, sporadically lit from Luca’s shoes as they dangled a few feet off the ground. 

After a few calming breaths, Papa leaned close and whispered in his ear, giving form to the moving shadows. “Abigail is on her knees, hands in her lap in front of that tree there.” Papa pointed carefully, directing Henry’s eyes by gripped his chin and turning him in the proper direction. “Cuffed, most likely. There are four men with her. The one standing closest, right behind her, has Anna. Two are off to the side—” another slight adjustment of Henry’s face, “—speaking to one another. The last is trying to hold onto Luca, who is not cooperating.” 

Henry needed no direction for that one. They were still mere shades to him, but it helped knowing more about their position relative to each other and his siblings. 

That left one terrible question, though. The serpent making a nest of Henry’s insides turned violently as he asked, “Where’s Dad?” 

Papa didn’t answer, eyes still scanning every dark corner. Maybe somewhere in the growing blackness, there was the hunched form of his other father, bound at the wrists. Maybe he too was lurking in the shadows, just as they were. 

But he could not, he  _ would not _ be laying out in the grass and leaves, bleeding and forgotten, a disregarded, cooling body no longer considered a threat. That was an image Henry could not bear to have in his mind, let alone see in reality. 

Banishing his worries for now, Henry looked up and stared at the outline of his Papa’s jaw. “What do we do?” he whispered, only belatedly realizing he was still clinging to his father’s arm, far harder than he meant to. He reluctantly let go. 

Papa thought for a moment, watching Abigail struggle and beg to be allowed to comfort her brother. Luca was screaming, thrashing and kicking savagely at the strange man trying to hold onto him. Every so often his foot would connect perfectly with his captor’s leg, lighting up those nearby with a brilliant display, like ghostly shades briefly glimpsed through a fleeting prism. 

Henry felt Papa’s large, warm hand move to press on his upper back, a heavy, soothing presence that had Henry breathing a tad easier, though it did little to temper the rabbiting of his heart. 

“I’m going to go say hello,” Papa finally told him, voice even and infuriatingly firm. Almost forgetting himself, Henry went to slap his father’s hand away, demand to know if he was  _ crazy, _ but something about the way Papa looked down at him made whatever protesting fit he was about to have wither away. He slumped, trying to relax into the touch instead, since it was going to be removed soon. 

“What do I do?” It seemed the better question to ask. He could only trust his father had a plan, that he would do whatever it took to ensure their family’s safety. That he’d find Dad. Henry couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Please don’t say, ‘stay here.’” 

Papa laughed under his breath, a short, airy sound that Henry felt more than heard. “If I do, you won’t listen.” Henry gave a minute shrug—it was true. “So instead I ask that you be careful. Wait for an opportunity. Even with Abigail freed, it is still three against four, and they have Luca and Anna.” 

Henry nodded eagerly, glad it was expected of him to help. Just the thought of being able to take his knife back out, of holding it in his hand, was enough to calm his heart a little. The anticipation of soon being able to  _ do something _ about the situation made it easier to swallow down his terror and the worry that was thrumming through his every nerve. 

The aching muscles in Henry’s legs threatened to cramp up on him if he didn’t stand soon, so Henry slowly eased out of the crouch. Papa followed, an arm moving to wrap around Henry’s chest and shoulder, holding him close. It was a familiar, comforting embrace, and Henry keenly felt its loss when Papa moved to step away. 

“Stay hidden. If you can, don’t be seen until it’s already over. Do you understand?” Papa whispered.

Henry couldn’t be sure if Papa meant for right now or for the entire ordeal they were facing tonight, but he nodded anyway. 

Since he’d said he was going to “say hello,” Henry assumed his Papa had something bold planned, perhaps catching the men out there by surprise. Rather than what Henry expected, he watched his father stalk around where the group was gathered, careful to stay concealed. Before Henry lost sight of him, he realized Papa was circling around to the two conversing on their own, slightly away from their fellow agents and captives. 

Now that he had a better idea as to how to proceed, Henry shadowed his father’s movements, heading along the same side toward his sisters. He kept to the shadows as best he was able, moving at a much slower pace. 

The closer he got, the better Henry was able to make everyone out—his eyes finally adjusting to the darkness. He could see Abigail clearly now, looking defeated with her head hanging low. Luca had yet to give up his own battle, struggling and kicking with all his might. Henry was impressed he hadn’t worn himself out yet. This close, Henry could also see that the man restraining Luca was dressed differently, not wearing the helmet or vest like the others. He only had a shoulder holster for a handgun, no rifle. Perhaps he was with the local authorities, Henry thought. Their liaison, tagging along to make sure that innocent Italian citizens weren’t being harassed.  

Coming almost even with the group now, Henry was in serious danger of his presence being brought to their attention with a single, errant gust of wind. It was still in their favor, if only just. It especially made sense, then, why Papa was circling to approach from behind. Henry wasn’t particularly skilled at geography or any sort of directional awareness, so even if it wasn’t true, he labeled the direction where the two lone agents stood, where Papa was soon to be approaching, as “north.” Abigail was just ahead of him, with one agent and Anna. To his “west” was Luca and the last man. 

Moving northeast slightly—in what was probably  _ not _ northeast at all—Henry kept low, making sure to rest and reevaluate his movements every couple of feet. The wind, when it appeared, was blowing eastward, keeping him concealed for now. 

At least, he had  _ thought _ he was concealed. He was just in between cover when his little brother’s voice unexpectedly called out from several yards away, “Hanni!” 

It was only the panicked, animal part of Henry’s brain that compelled him to move, dodging behind a tree and fervently hoping no one else saw him. Luca was screaming bloody murder now, shrieking Henry’s name at the top of his lungs  _ over and over again _ . 

“Hanni! Hanni, help! Hanni, please!” 

Henry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He rubbed both his hands over his face without thinking about it, only remembering  _ after _ he felt the sticky, rough texture of them on his skin that they were covered in blood. At least it had mostly dried, although some had undoubtedly just wiped off on his face. It didn’t matter. His chin and throat were coated in it due to his steadily bleeding tongue anyway.

“Put me down! I want my brother! He’s gonna get you if you don’t let me go!” 

Henry quickly covered his mouth to stymie a laugh—or a sob, he couldn’t even tell. If he’d already ruined this by being spotted, even if it only by Luca, he would never be able to forgive himself. Should something happen to any of them…

He heard other voices, low in tone and volume. Careful, so slow he might as well not have been moving at all, Henry peeked around the tree to get a look at how positions may have changed. So far, the northern two had stayed sequestered, not moving. Perhaps they’d tuned out Luca’s voice long ago before Henry and his father had arrived. 

The man holding Luca, however, had moved closer to Abigail—and closer to Henry. 

“The kid saw something,” the man with Luca said to his companion, Italian accent confirming Henry’s suspicions about him. 

“What do you expect me to do about it?” asked the agent holding Anna, an American like the other three. With the goggles and mask he wore, it wasn’t possible to discern much about him, but the irritation that had seeped into his voice, the awkward way he held a quietly whimpering Anna, meant either two things to Henry: either he was uncomfortable around distressed children and omegas or he was uncomfortable that they were even there to begin with. After all, Agent Crawford had crossed the ocean to track down two murderous, cannibal alphas. Henry doubted many who had joined him on this hunt were eager to literally rip a family apart, complete with crying, confused children and anguished young women. 

What Henry found interesting, though, was that while he could tell Abigail was crying, shoulders shaking, he wasn’t able to sense any distress coming from her. She was upset, that was without a doubt, but he felt nothing from her like he did back on the front porch when she’d first come home. 

As he pondered that, the Italian probable-liaison said, “Go take a  _ look.  _ It could be the one Crawford was after.” 

“I’m supposed to confront a cannibal holding a  _ baby?”  _

_ Holding  _ **_the cannibal’s_ ** _ baby, _ Henry mentally added. Surely that made the scenario much, much worse.

The man with Luca sighed, hefting Luca’s squirming form from one arm to another, narrowly dodging a heel to the groin. “Give her to the girl. Probably quiet them both until the people from child services get here.” 

Abigail’s head popped up at that. “Yes, please, I’ll take her.” 

The American agent shrugged, clearly glad to be rid of Henry’s little sister, and dumped her into Abigail’s waiting arms, still bound together at the wrist by a set of cuffs. 

Free of his burden, the agent turned toward Henry’s general direction. Thankfully he was still hidden by shadows, dark clothing and dark hair likely keeping him entirely from view. Perhaps the blood streaking his face helped in that regard too, if he was as covered in it as he felt. 

Henry tensed, moving to put more weight on his back foot, standing hunched low to the ground. He was ready, waiting to lunge. 

The man had only taken a single step when they all heard the first gunshot. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to feel bad for these nameless agents. (I'm not.) 
> 
> Also, I'm super sorry this update took so long! This chapter just didn't want to cooperate with me when it came time to edit, but I think I finally managed to hammer it into (some kinda) shape.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry works to free his siblings, and Abigail is hardly a damsel in distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note that things don't go quite as smoothly for Henry this chapter as they have in the past, and the tags have been updated.

It was so easy to forget how loud a fired gun actually was; each one of those initial, the sporadic shots painfully reverberated through Henry’s skull, startling him. They were quickly followed by burst fire, likely from one of the rifles the American agents were carrying.  

Henry could only assume the first few had come from Papa, a surprising conclusion, given how rarely he’d seen his father even  _ touch _ a gun—today was certainly a record. Over the last few years, Henry had gone target shooting with Dad on occasion, partially because Dad liked to practice alongside someone else sometimes and partially because he thought it prudent Henry grow up with a thorough understanding of and healthy respect for firearms. Papa never joined them. 

When there was  _ only _ the sound of a rifle returning fire, Henry had no time to worry about what that meant, because the two men he was watching were not the investigative—or valiant- sort, it seemed, and were fleeing from the commotion right in Henry’s direction. The American had yanked Abigail up by her arm, commanding her to follow them. Henry scuttled back a few yards, thankful the awful amount of noise he was making in his retreat was covered up by something far, far louder. Henry felt exposed with how far the agents withdrew from the gunfire, how far they  _ continued _ to withdraw, so he did the only thing he could think of to avoid being seen: scramble up a tree.

It was more difficult than he anticipated. He’d done this before, of course, but that was during the day, with a rested body not coated with blood. At first, he had trouble getting purchase on the bark, slipping back down every time he thought he’d made progress. Finally, Henry managed to get high enough to reach a thick, strong branch and heaved himself up onto it with what little strength he had, desperately willing his body not to give up and drop him unceremoniously onto the forest floor. 

He’d barely gotten situated before he saw the group run underneath his perch. The two agents kept Abigail close, and Luca had given up his struggle against the man holding him, instead covering his ears with both hands, squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he could. 

When the woods went completely silent—the thundering noise stopping as quickly as it’d started—the agents skidded to a halt, not far from where Henry was hidden. Abigail was forced to the ground again, and Luca was dropped. The Italian officer kept a hand pressed down on the back of Luca’s neck to make him stay put, normally a comforting gesture from a parent, but from a stranger, it only sought to be controlling and intimidating. The sight made Henry’s blood boil. He wanted to leap down to the ground and rip the man’s throat out with his teeth for daring to lay a hand on his brother, but he couldn’t move, not when he didn’t know the outcome of the exchanged gunfire, if his father was safe. He couldn’t risk putting his siblings into any more danger. 

After several long moments where no further shots were heard, the American agent yanked a radio off his belt and ventured just a touch nearer, trying to peer out into the darkness. 

Henry swallowed around a mouthful of blood, grimacing at the way his stomach turned. He’d rather just let it fall out of his mouth at this point but didn’t want to risk a spontaneously bleeding tree garnering unwanted attention. For now, Henry needed to remain hidden, do as his Papa had instructed him. It struck him as nothing short of miraculous that he hadn’t been discovered already—this far from the fire, there was no way the smoke was covering his scent. How had they not  _ noticed _ him yet? 

One look at his siblings gave Henry the most probable answer. Henry had to remind himself not everyone had the sense of smell Papa did. It was entirely possible they simply couldn’t tell the difference between two very scared, small children and a third, lurking just above their line of sight. 

The American was barking into his radio, trying to get in contact with the two agents who had yet to make a reappearance now that things had quieted. Henry wasn’t paying much attention to what was being said—his focus was on his brother, shivering and silently crying—until he caught the tail-end of a very important question. 

“-ham still in custody?” 

The other man went to walk forward, only to realize he still needed to hold onto Luca, and waved his hand impatiently to speed up the conversation. “Well?”

Henry couldn’t make out the quiet, crackly words from the radio, but luckily he didn’t have to.

“They have him, haven’t even moved ‘em. Must be the other one, Lecter.” 

_ Dad’s alive! _ Henry thought, limbs going boneless as his stomach swooped in near debilitating relief.  _ Dad’s alive, he’s alive, he’s- _

_ He’s in custody.  _

They must have never made it to the truck, Henry realized. Dad had been carted off to some police van,  _ still alive,  _ while the remaining four agents were tasked with staying put with the children he’d been protecting. Henry wondered how many others his family had encountered out here, how many he and Papa narrowly missed crossing paths with. The authorities must have surrounded the entire property, entering from several different locations. It was possible, then, that they’d found the dirt road that led from the emergency shack. If that was the case, their avenue of escape had already been cut off. Henry could only hope there was a Plan B. 

The missing agents were a good sign, Henry thought. It meant Papa had succeeded in killing, incapacitating, or leading them away, which left only the two below for Henry to deal with. If there was a way to free Abigail, that would be even better. 

As he thought about whether he should wait for his father to make his way back to them or find a way to signal his sister, he saw Luca tentatively open his eyes. Very slowly, he removed one hand, then another, and sighed deeply upon hearing the relative quiet of the woods. He seemed confused about their new location and looked around, eyes  _ somehow _ landing on Henry yet again. Of course.

Henry waved his hand in a frantic stop motion as fast as he could, bringing the other to his mouth in a desperate plea for silence. Thankfully, Luca was capable of taking a hint and did not call out to him a second time, although he was staring up at Henry, wide-eyed and hopeful.

Now that he had Luca’s attention, Henry was unsure what to do with it before one of the men inevitably took notice and got curious as to what the boy was looking at. Whatever Henry’s next move was, he had to do it now, while he still had the element of surprise. 

His best chance was working with Abigail. There was no other way. 

Careful not to rustle any of the branches or leaves around him, Henry emphatically gestured toward their sister, all the while keeping a finger pressed to his mouth. Luca glanced between his siblings nervously, but Henry was fairly certain he knew what to do. He hoped so, anyway. 

“Abi,” Luca cried suddenly, the vowels of her name long and drawn out.

Henry winced. Why had he expected subtly from a four-year-old?

When she turned to look at him, Luca said, a tad too loud, “Abi, I’m scared.” 

“It’s okay, Lucky. It’s all going to be okay.” She was sniffling a little, voice scratchy and wet, but Henry admired that Abigail was able to so quickly put on a brave face for Luca’s benefit. Anna was curled awkwardly on her lap, idly tugging on Abigail’s scarf. It couldn’t have been comfortable, both having to hold their sister with her hands cuffed and endure being mildly choked, all while kneeling on the cold ground. 

Henry wasn’t comfortable either. The branch he was sitting on was hard and damp, and his chest felt tight, making it hard to breathe, despite the fire being far away. From his elevated position, he could see it gradually, slowly getting closer. Logically he knew the smoke wasn’t close enough to be bothering him this much, but he’d rather blame it on that than consider any other explanation, like his own growing anxiety. 

“I wanna g’home.” Luca remained perfectly still as he whined, not struggling at all against the rude grip held on him. 

“I know, Lucky, I know.” 

Luca briefly looked around at his surroundings before finding his next complaint, making his voice high and squeaky. “It’s dark.” 

If Henry’s charade request had been to  _ annoy everyone to death,  _ Luca was doing a great job. Every time he spoke, the irritated frowns on the strangers’ faces grew deeper. 

Abigail, however, was now looking at Luca curiously and Henry realized why. That last whine was so garbled, it sounded more like “it dahk” than anything else. Luca was using his fake baby voice, the one he thought was adorable and persuasive. It wasn’t. 

He made a show of stomping his tiny foot and looking up at the sky in exasperation, before shifting his gaze down, briefly flitting to Henry’s tree, then to the rainbows dancing around his feet. 

“The stars will be out soon,” Abigail said slowly. She took her time looking up herself, eyes locking with Henry before moving on to the darkening sky. “Not long, Luca.” Her jaw tightened as she resolutely did not look back at Henry. He wondered if she had seen all the blood. 

“We should try and head out to the road; we’ve got to hit it eventually,” the American suddenly said, glancing around at the shadows encroaching on them. 

Henry readjusted on his branch, slinking back closer to the trunk where he was less likely to be spotted. 

“You want to stumble around in the dark and run face-first into Lecter?” the liaison asked with a scoff. “We’d better just stay where the backup knows where we are. They’ll be here soon.”

The FBI agent was looking more uncomfortable with every passing second. “I can’t believe you don’t have a backup light.” 

“No one was expecting Graham to aim for our  _ flashlights _ first. Not like you have yours either.” 

That made the American huffy, and he puffed out his chest. “Mathis and the others needed it more.”

“Right.” Leaning against a nearby trunk, dangerously close to seeing Henry if he just  _ looked up,  _ the Italian ruefully cast a glance behind them, where the flickering blaze from the house explosion could be seen in the distance. “Think it matters if I smoke? This whole place is going to burn anyway.”

“What about the kids?”

“Second-hand smoke is the least of their worries.”

Luca tried squirming away when the man holding him fished a package of cigarettes out of his pocket. 

“Hey,” the Italian said, shaking Luca once via the scruff of his neck. By now, Henry had determined the man with Luca was an alpha and the other, a beta. It made it all the more infuriating when he used that fact to intimidate Luca, his voice a low growl as he said, “Don’t make me chase after you again.”

Predictably, Luca shrunk in on himself, his whole body trembling and shaking. To keep himself from leaping down in a rage, Henry had to dig his fingers into the trunk against his back. The bark scraped and cut at his skin, scratching up his hands, and Henry only gripped harder. 

“Can I have one of those?” the other agent asked after the liaison had lit the cigarette dangling from his lips. The American removed his helmet and goggles and tugged off the mask, dropping them into a little pile at his feet, sighing loudly once he was free of it all. He wiped the sweat from his brow and held out an imploring hand. 

“Me too?” 

Abigail’s voice startled near everyone. She was looking between the two men, wide-eyed and earnest. When they didn’t immediately respond, she coyly tucked a strand of her long, straight hair behind her real ear. The prosthetic stayed covered. 

The men exchanged wry glances before the Italian handed the lit cigarette off to the other. “And what about the little one there?” 

“She’s a year old. She’ll be fine,” Abigail said with an obnoxiously pronounced eye-roll. She gently transferred Anna out of her arms to sit on the ground beside her, holding a hand to her back while she wobbled in place for a moment. Given the presence of two strangers and the odd location, Anna did not look eager to explore her surroundings and stayed put, hiding slightly behind Abigail’s elbow. “See? I’ll blow it away from her. Come on. Who knows how long until I’ll be able to get another chance.” 

The American beta took a drag of the cigarette as he regarded Abigail. Henry could just barely make out the playful smirk on the man’s face as he asked, “You sure your daddies would be okay with it?” 

“I won’t tell them if you don’t,” Abigail replied, offering up a wavering smile that managed to look both fragile and sweet. 

After exchanging shrugs with the liaison, the beta approached Abigail slowly before crouching in front of her, holding the cigarette out. When Abigail’s hands raised to take it, he jerked his hand away from her. “Nuh uh. You could use this as a weapon, put someone’s eye out. Wouldn’t be smart to just hand it over, would it?” He flipped the cigarette around, filter end sticking out of his grasp. “Why don’t I just hold it for you?” 

Now that he’d moved, Henry could only see the man’s back, but he could still see Abigail’s face. She peered up at him through her lashes and blinked slowly as she leaned forward to wrap her lips around the end of the cigarette. 

The beta was muttering something quiet to her, nothing Henry could understand at this distance. He was considering jumping down while at least one of the men was distracted when something changed in Abigail’s eyes. 

Before anyone could react, least of all the American agent in front of her, Abigail ripped her mouth away from the cigarette, her cuffed hands snapping up to grab the man’s wrist in the same moment, jerking them down and to the side. In a blink, she was rising from her knees, pushing him down to his, and standing behind him, arms looped around his neck. She yanked her hands back, driving the chain of her cuffs against his throat. The man arched under her, a knee driven into his back to increase the pressure. 

The Italian officer was slow to respond, hastily dropping his newly lit smoke. In going for his gun, he’d let go of Henry’s brother. 

“Luca, bite!” Henry screamed, dropping down from his perch and making sure to roll on impact. Now would be a terrible moment to break a leg. 

Needing no further encouragement, Luca viciously sunk his teeth into the man’s forearm, blood immediately welling up and spilling forth. He shook his head from side to side, driving his teeth even deeper before ripping away, jaw still clenched and tearing off a large chunk of flesh and skin. The entire lower half of his face was a red ruin, and Luca darted off before the man had a chance to swat at him. 

The liaison barely had time to register the wound before Henry was tackling him to the ground. He’d already been off balance from the shock, so it took considerably less effort than Henry had anticipated, knocking the wind out of both for a moment. Thankfully, Henry didn’t need air in order to grab the man’s holstered gun, which he was trying to reach with an uncooperative, bleeding arm. Henry tossed the weapon behind him, not caring where it landed. In his haste to get rid of the gun, though, he wasn’t fast enough to pin the man’s arms down and was struck in the side of his head, sending him sprawling onto the ground. 

The blow felt like having a pincushion explode within the confines of his skull. It was disorientating, made it hard to focus on the form moving to stand in front of him. As Henry rose to unsteady legs, the blur he assumed to be his attacker advanced, hitting him again in his middle. The pain was expected, once he saw the punch coming, but Henry could hardly be faulted for thinking it still  _ sucked.  _ He simultaneously felt like he wanted to throw up and pass out as he sank back to his hands and knees. 

“You little shit,” the alpha growled at him. “I knew there was someone else out here.” He clutched at his bleeding arm, hissing sharply when he peeked under his hand to assess the damage. Luca had bitten deeply, likely tearing into muscle and ligament, leaving behind a crater in the flesh, gushing blood. 

For good measure, Henry received a boot to the face—not hard enough to break anything, he was pretty sure, but enough to keep him down—before the liaison whirled around to look for his counterpart. Henry’s face hurt too much for him to focus on swallowing anymore, so his mouth hung open, letting the blood drip out as it pleased. 

The beta was dead. He was lying face down in the dirt, completely still. Several yards away was Abigail, Anna held to her hip with an elbow and Luca clinging to her leg. The gun in her hands probably belonged to the man she’d strangled to death. 

“I have to hand it to you—fooled us both with the weepy little omega act. You’re good,” the liaison said, not taking his eyes off her for long as he quickly scanned the ground, looking for his own weapon. 

Abigail shrugged. “You know who my fathers are,” was all she said in response. 

Henry dug his fingers into the dirt, concentrating on breathing carefully through his nose to regain his sense of equilibrium. His chest was aching awfully, but at least his stomach had calmed. He was hurting, but no longer felt like he was going to puke from the pain. It was a welcome improvement. Now if only he could stop feeling dizzy, get at his knife…

“I’m beginning to see that,” the man said. He pointed to Abigail’s pilfered gun. “You’re going to want to put that down. I still have your brother.” 

Abigail cocked her head to the side. “Do you?” 

The blade resisted sliding out of its sheath, practically cemented inside by drying or dried blood. When it failed to give on the first few tugs, Henry quickly resumed his pained position, hands in front of him as he panted loudly, making sure his back rose and fell with dramatic effect. For now, he had to appear weak.

By the time the alpha turned around, Henry could almost  _ hear _ him smirk. “He’s not going anywhere. Are you, son?” 

With the vicious turn of the man’s voice, Henry forced his every muscle and limb to relax, fully anticipating the brutal kick he received to his torso despite Abigail’s desperate shouts. He grunted with the impact, allowing himself to be forced onto his back with a dismissive shove of the man’s foot. The ground was freezing cold even through his clothes. 

“See? Now toss the gun here. You don’t want anything else to happen to this boy, do you?” 

“Leave him alone! If you don’t I’ll—I’ll shoot you,” Abigail said. Her hands were suddenly shaking so hard, Henry could hear her handcuffs rattling.

“Will you now?” the alpha challenged, taking a deliberate step toward her, then another. Away from Henry. 

“I will. Don’t come any closer. Don’t!” 

Using considerable effort to suppress his groan of pain, Henry forced himself up to his knees and was proud when Abigail’s gaze never once flicked over to him. 

“I’m not so sure you can. Poor Agent Dunn, he was a beta. You were just a little too quick for him. You could try and shoot me—but what if you miss? Do you want to risk what will happen then?” the alpha said, voice descending deeper and deeper into a growl meant to induce cowering in others. He gestured to Anna and Luca. “What about these babies in your care? Are you willing to bet their well-being on whether you can make the shot? Look at you. You’re trembling.” 

During that dull little speech, Henry dug his knife’s sheath out of his pocket, as it required all his strength from both arms to separate blade from leather. Once it finally popped free, quietly enough not to draw attention, Henry tried to make a mental note to wipe it clean after each use to prevent that kind of thing in the future. It was really inconvenient. 

Henry pulled himself up using a nearby tree and silently crept up behind the alpha, who’d stopped a few feet from Abigail. He was trying to tower over her, appear big and threatening, but he wasn’t very tall. His sister cowered a little anyway, knees bent so that she had to look up at the man. 

“Why don’t you just hand that over, and no one else has to get hurt, especially not your brother. If you’re good for me, maybe I’ll even tell them Lecter killed Dunn. Wouldn’t you like that? You don’t want to go jail too, do you?” 

“Oh,” Abigail said softly, the sound delicate and frightful. “You’re right.”

The liaison laughed. “Of course I am. Hand it here.”

“I can’t shoot now.”

“No, you can’t. Why don’t you—” 

“It’d damage their hearing,” she said, making no move to relinquish the gun. 

The alpha growled something unintelligible, moving to lunge at Abigail with his good arm, but Henry tightly wrapped his hand around the damaged one, fingers digging mercilessly into the bleeding wound there, searching. The man howled in pain and whirled on him just as Henry was sure he touched bone, but the agony made him uncoordinated and Henry ducked the blow easily. 

Still hooked into the man’s arm, Henry yanked down, effortlessly dragging him to his knees. The screaming, again, was probably not ideal, but Henry couldn’t bring himself to care. With the hand not clawing at exposed flesh within the alpha’s arm, Henry stabbed low, shoving the knife deep into the man’s gut. He jerked the blade upward, feeling around to cut into as many soft places as he could find, hoping to nick a little bit into everything. 

He supposed he could also go that extra mile, dig in with his hands and pull everything out, but Henry decided he didn’t want intestines spilling out onto his shoes. If he cut into even half the organs he hoped he did, the smell would be atrocious. Plus, Henry looked up to see Luca burying his face into Abigail’s side, hiding from the gore. Or maybe he was trying to wipe the blood off of his face—it was hard to tell for sure. 

Either way, the dull shine to the man’s eyes told Henry his job was done, and he shoved him to the ground where he fell limp with a wet sounding plop. 

Breathing heavy, Henry bent down—wincing at the tender feeling in his ribs—and searched the liaison’s pockets until he found a set of keys. All police cuffs were unlocked with an identical key, something his Dad had taught him, and like he suspected, both men had copies on them. Henry wasted no time finally releasing Abigail from her handcuffs, smiling at her sigh of relief, and shoved the keys into his pocket for potential use later. 

Freed, Abigail shoved the gun into the back of her pants in a hurry and pulled Henry into a quick, one-armed hug. “You did great; that was fantastic, Henry.” 

She breathed him in for just a moment, holding him tight as she assured herself he was all right—as all right as he could be, anyway—before reluctantly letting him go. 

“We need to-” she started to say, looking blindly out into the dark maze of trees. 

Henry was going to finish her thought, say they needed to find their fathers, needed to leave, when suddenly out of the blackness came a loud, bellowing call. 

“Henry!” 

His face snapped to Abigail’s, recognition and worry in both of their eyes. Henry said nothing to her. He turned and ran as fast as he could in the direction of Papa’s voice. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  These last few chapters have absolutely been kicking my ass when it comes to the rewrites! Finally got it done, though, even with being so out of sorts because of the new schedule. (3AM-noon is the worst shift ever. I miss not being awake during daylight hours.) 
> 
> I'm sorry y'all had to witness our sweet Henry get kicked around a little, but not every confrontation was going to go his way. And there's still quite a few chapters to go... 
> 
> In other news, this fic has received its [first piece of fanart!!](http://lesbrambora.tumblr.com/post/173999791179/the-apple-doesnt-fall-far-away-from-the-tree) Please go take a look at the precious murder muffin. Thank you so much, lesbrambora!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️  
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion, some strategizing, and a heaping pile of feels.

Henry had paused to catch his breath, weight leaning on a low-hanging branch as he panted and tried to discern the shapes of the shadows around him, when he heard his father call for him again. He swiveled in place, shoulders straining uncomfortably when he did not release the branch—he did not fully trust himself to stay upright without it.

He could not quite tell, in his blind run, if he’d been getting any closer to the voice calling for him or not.

“Papa!” he yelled back, with the hope that it was only he and his father wandering this section of woods. He waited a moment, figuring Papa would probably be better suited to finding his way to _Henry_ instead of the other way around. Exhausted from running—from a lot of things—Henry rested his forehead against the tree trunk next to him when the seconds stretched into minutes. It was better he wait in one place, he had to remind himself, else they could spend half the night circling each other in the dark.

Even though it definitely hurt his lungs—and they had yet to stop aching in his chest, despite having been far away from the smoke for some time now—Henry opened his mouth to call out _louder,_ would do so louder and louder until he was hoarse if he had to, when there was a wet sounding cough close by.

“Henry, Hen- here.”

Henry spun and finally saw a dark shape a few feet away from him take the more solid form of his Papa, slumped against a tree. He was clutching his side, a slight grimace on his face. As Henry approached, all fatigue temporarily forgotten, he realized Papa wasn’t holding the same place he had earlier. Instead he was… he was…

Henry squeaked in alarm. “You’re bleeding!”

Papa nodded stiffly, not removing his hand. “Missed—ah, missed anything vital. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“They shot you! Why didn’t you call for me _sooner?”_

Amazingly—infuriatingly—Papa just laughed, although it made him wince. “Didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention,” he said slowly, moving to stand closer to Henry, reaching for him. “There’s new blood on you. A pity I missed it, but—Henry, what happened here?”

Ah, well, Henry figured that wouldn’t go unnoticed forever. The entire right side of his face ached something fierce, as did his ribs and stomach where he’d been kicked. He had no way of knowing how bad it looked, but judging by the increasingly concerned and furious expression taking over Papa’s own face, he could only assume it was beginning to bruise into something ugly.

“He got a few licks in,” Henry tried to joke, heavily shrugging one shoulder.

“None of this blood is yours?” Papa seemed unwilling to even voice the second half of that thought. _Or your siblings’?_

“Some might be from my tongue earlier, but the rest, no. No one else has a scratch on them. Try not to freak out when you see Luca’s mouth though.”

Henry took his father’s hand, the one not putting pressure on the wound in his side, and lead him in the direction he’d come from—that he… was pretty sure he came from, anyway.

Between labored breaths, Papa asked, “Why would I ‘freak out?’”

“You won’t,” Henry said quickly. “Because there’s no need. There’s just—it’s not his blood, that’s all.”

When he looked up, Papa was staring down at him curiously, a single pale brow raised. “Well I didn’t take them _both_ down myself,” Henry said, trying and failing to imply in his tone that he could have. Definitely could have. “But Luca helped. And Abi, uh, strangled one all on her own.”

“Did she now?”

“Yeah, went total Princess Leia on him.”

Despite the pain it must have caused him, Papa laughed again, unable to help it.

They found Henry’s siblings right where he’d left him, thankfully. Henry wasn’t entirely sure what he would have done if he’d somehow gotten turned around in his mad dash to find Papa. Play Marco Polo for a few hours in the middle of the woods in the dark, he supposed, all while slowly being encroached on by fire and the police forces from two different continents.

“Papa!” Luca shrieked once they came into view, flying from Abigail’s side and launching himself at Papa’s legs, forceful enough to topple him in his current state had Henry not been there to catch him.

Papa managed to hold in a groan, sparing a quick, grateful glance to Henry before kneeling to fully embrace Luca, who immediately started to cry.

“I’m here, it’s fine. You’re safe now, it’s okay,” Papa said, before mumbling sweet, quiet reassurances in various languages, snippets of phrases Henry knew from the many times they’ve lovingly fallen from their fathers’ mouths in less stressful circumstances.

Abigail approached cautiously, staying back a few feet in case Luca’s crying set off Anna, who had just regained some semblance of calm after all the carnage she’d born witness to. It was a shame she’d remember none of this, Henry thought.

“Pops, are you hurt?” she asked, voice soft so as not to alarm Luca further.

Papa nodded, wordlessly gestured to his side, as he was still focused on calming down his youngest son. Henry mimed finger guns where Luca couldn’t see him, as way of explanation, and regretted it slightly when Abigail’s face paled.

He tried to reassure her. “He said it’s not bad.”

Abigail’s eyes snapped to his, from where she’d been staring in shock at the growing stain in Papa’s side. “I’ll be the judge of that,” she told him.

When Luca had downgraded from outright wailing to quiet sniveling, Papa looked up at the two of them. “Have you any idea where Will is?”

Abigail instinctively hugged Anna tighter, pressed her lips against the top of Anna’s soft head. “He’s alive,” she said, letting out a shaky breath. Henry watched as those simple two words bled the tension that had been building in Papa’s shoulders. “We hadn’t even made it to the clearing yet when we ran into trouble. There were about nine of them, maybe ten. Dad tried- he tried to distract them, so we could run, but one of ‘em grabbed Luca.” Here her voice broke, only slightly, a waver in control. “I couldn’t leave him.”

“I would not have wanted you to. What happened then?”

After taking another deep breath, Abigail bounced Anna in her arms, a nervous, idle action more for her own benefit than their baby sister’s, Henry suspected.

“They had all these big, bright flashlights and Dad—I guess all that target shooting he does paid off. He took out the ones he could when the—god, you _really_ blew up the house, didn’t you?” At Papa’s nod, Abigail blinked, shaking her head before continuing. “When the blast was over, he stopped shooting, but they’d already figured out where he was. I think he got at least two before the rest piled on. He couldn’t do anything then. All but the four you found us with carried him away, I don’t know where.”

Papa was quiet as he listened, at one point gently nudging Luca to cling to his uninjured side. Somehow, he was still unaware their father had been shot. Too much blood already in the air to notice a new source, maybe.

“I think he’s still nearby,” Henry added, after a few moments of silence. “They were worried the gunshots were Dad and radioed in to see if he’d escaped. They might just be on the road.” He turned to Abigail, hoping her sense of direction was better than his in all this darkness. “Which way did they take him?”

She pointed with only a moment’s deliberation. “That way. It isn’t far from here to the fence.”

Desperate, Henry looked to the sky, hoping for some distinctive stars, _any_ stars, but was rewarded with something far better. The moon was out, just a sliver of it, but it was right in front of him, in the direction Abigail had pointed. It was enough. He just had to make sure he could see it, and he’d find the fence. He’d find their Dad.

“Okay,” he said suddenly, reaching up to push his hair off of his face and mostly failing. It was stuck to his skin with sweat and blood. “We still need to get to the truck. It’s our best chance, right?” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his father nodding as Abigail’s eyes narrowed, watching him skeptically. “That’s not where they caught you, so maybe they haven’t even found the road. If we can all get there, we can leave. There’re medical supplies in the shack. You can patch up Papa, either while you wait or after we get going, but trying to stitch up a wound in a moving vehicle seems a bit-”

Abigail held up her hand, stalling Henry’s rambling trail of thoughts. “While we wait? What are we waiting for?”

“For me to come back with Dad,” he answered. _Obviously._

 _“_ For you to—are you _crazy_?” Abigail sputtered at the same time Papa asked, calm and curious, “What is your plan, Henry?”

Henry had expected to have to defend the concept at least a little, the idea that he’d be going off on his own to find Dad—he didn’t want to think of it was a _rescue._ Henry’s fathers were the strongest, most capable men he’s ever known; they don’t get rescued. They… received assistance in facilitating their own escapes. Yes, that sounded much better. Henry tried to commit that wording to memory for use later.

“Well,” Henry started to say, before stopping to clear his throat and put his thoughts in order. “I need to find where they’re keeping him, first. I already have keys to unlock whatever cuffs they have on him, and my knife to cut ties or straps.”

“And when you find him? What if he’s surrounded by our enemies?” Papa asked.

Just killing them all was not going to be an option, Henry knew that. It was not going to be as dark out on the road, there’s most certainly going to be more agents or cops milling about, and there will be significantly less cover. If Dad was under heavy guard, Henry wouldn’t have the ability to get close without being seen. He couldn’t assume he’s going to be lucky, not like he has been.

“A distraction?” That seemed like a solid, if vague idea, but he hated how it came out as a question.

To his relief, his Papa merely nodded. “Might be necessary. What would you use as your distraction?”

A few snapping twigs wouldn’t work this time. There was the gunfire from earlier—that had seemed awfully distracting for Agent Dunn and the liaison. Even so, he didn’t have a gun at present and using it would just give away his position. Like it had for both his parents, Henry thought, trying not to stare at the sluggishly bleeding spot under Papa’s hand.

“What about another explosion?” Abigail asked, brows pinched together. She didn’t look happy with the topic of discussion but neither was she voicing any objections.

Papa huffed a laugh under his breath and rested his chin on Luca’s head, who had yet to fully settle and still sniffled occasionally. “I’m afraid we don’t have another building to use, nor have we made a habit of stockpiling explosives. The house was a last resort.”

“No, not-” Abigail sighed and reached for her neck, starting to undo her scarf. It wasn’t easy one-handed, especially not with Anna grabbing whole fistfuls of the fabric. She managed in the end, tugging the whole thing free from around her neck and their sister’s inquisitive hands, exposing the pale skin of her throat—and her scar—to the cold night air. She pressed the whole wad of fine cloth into Henry’s hands. “It doesn’t have to be a _building,”_ she said.

The dark silk in Henry’s hands felt smooth, the print hard to see with how little light there was. He never took much notice of the specifics of Abigail’s scarves before; he just knew she had a great many. Some were intricate and loud—like Papa’s ties—others were more subtle, or plain, or thick and cozy for the wintertime, in festive patterns and plaids. In the summer, they were often sheer and airy, wisps of fabrics that hardly concealed her scar at all, but he guessed they had just become an indispensable staple of her wardrobe after so many years.

“That is an excellent idea, Abigail,” Papa said. He reached into his pocket, temporarily having to let go of Luca’s trembling form. It was not appreciated, and Luca tried to cling onto Papa tighter, his arms thankfully _just_ short enough that he could not reach the wound that was on the other side of Papa’s body. But the movement still hurt, and Papa grimaced as he held a hand out to Henry, the lighter from earlier in his palm.

Once Henry took it from him, Papa adjusted back on his heels and tried to maneuver Luca from pressing his small hands so close to his _bullet wound._

“Abi, you should take everyone back to the truck, okay? He’s been bleeding for a really long time now.”

“I’ll be fine,” Papa grumbled but began to rise to his feet anyway. It was slow going, since Luca had now looped his arms around their father’s neck and was not letting go for anything in the world. Henry stepped forward and loosened the grip, since there was no way he was going to let Papa carry Luca all the way to the clearing. He pulled his hand back just seconds before teeth snapped at him.

Because he was going to straight up climb their father to get what he wanted, Abigail grabbed Luca’s arm and pulled him closer to her, holding him still. Henry rolled his eyes, noting _she_ didn’t almost get bit.

“We’re really going to let him go off and do this? He’s not Rambo, Pops, he’s-”

Papa sighed, wobbled slightly on his feet. He acknowledged Henry’s hand on his elbow to hold him steady with a small smile. “Your brother has proven himself capable of far more than any of us could have expected tonight. What he needs now is our trust and confidence that he can continue to do what must be done, that we cannot.”

Abigail’s wide, bright eyes were on him then, piercing with both a desperate need and a terrible, aching concern. Henry knew, when he was very small, Abigail had as much of a hand in his care and upbringing as his fathers did. It was only the necessity of a university education that eventually pulled her away.

Trusting that Papa could stand upright on his own for the moment, Henry darted forward and wrapped his bloody arms around his sister, hugging her tight. “I can do this,” he promised. “I’ll find him, and we’ll all leave together.”

“You better,” she whispered back, sniffling through a humorless laugh. “If you do something dumb and get yourself killed, I’ll… I’ll-”

“I know.”

Abigail laughed again and leaned forward, gently kissing him once on each cheek and one final time between the eyes, mindful of his bruises.

Henry watched as Abigail hastily wiped her eyes and walked over to Papa, waited for him to sling an arm over her shoulder for support. They wouldn’t be able to move very quickly, with Papa injured and Luca trudging alongside them, but they’d get there—and hopefully get there soon.

At a beckoning hand from his father, Henry stepped close and had his shoulder clasped firmly. The hand was warm, covered in fresh blood. Henry tried not to think of whose it was. “Your Dad is going to angry it’s you coming for him, that you’re putting yourself at risk. And he’s going to be angry I allowed it. Don’t waste time or breath defending yourself or my judgement, do you understand? What’s important is that you come back to us, both of you.” Papa paused, breathing deeply. For a moment, Henry thought he was just steeling himself against the pain in his side. “But if something goes wrong, if it comes down to your own safe return or neither…”

Henry reared back and had to resist the urge to shake Papa’s hand off. “You’re asking me to leave him.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m asking you to accept that it may be necessary. He wouldn’t want you to trade your life for his. Neither would I.”

“But-”

“Dad would never forgive himself if something happened to you,” Abigail said, cutting in. “He’d never forgive Pops. He’d never forgive _me,_ for letting it happen. If you find him, and it isn’t safe, you have to come back alone. _You have to.”_

Henry looked between their pleading faces, and his stomach started to twist itself into knots. If he found his Dad, how could he just leave him there, no matter what the circumstance? What kind of son would he be?

“Either you promise me you will make the sensible choice, Henry, or you come with us. Now,” Papa said, his voice hard. The grip he had on Henry’s shoulder felt like a shackle. He wouldn’t be able to slip away.

It was tempting to lie, to agree to what was being asked of him, and then just do whatever the hell he wanted anyway. But Henry liked to think he was raised better than that, so at first he merely said nothing, taking a moment to imagine a few different scenarios.

What if something _did_ go wrong? Maybe they’d already taken Dad away, holed him up in some dank cell miles and miles away, where Henry could never hope to free him, not on his own. Maybe Dad had fought more, after the initial scuffle, and the ensuring conflict had resulted in his death. (It took hours in the event of a partner’s death for a bond to properly brake. They wouldn’t know for far too long if that had happened.) Maybe Henry did find his Dad, freed him, but then they are both shot in the escape. That was certainly possible.

How long could he expect Papa and his siblings to wait? How long would they keep themselves exposed, at risk, waiting for one or both of them to return? How painful was every second going to be for his father, not knowing if the forms that spilled out from the treeline would be his husband and son or the means of his family’s end? Henry imagined finding his way back to the truck, by himself, having to see the heartbreak on all their faces. Then he tried to picture just his Dad stumbling into the clearing, alone. All he could think about now was the worry, the fear he saw in that one photo of Dad, the one taken at the stoplight. The actual devastation it would cause his family if he never made it back would be a thousand times worse.

Henry couldn’t—wouldn’t—inflict that kind of pain on either of his parents.

What other choice did he have? “Okay. Okay, I promise.”

Dad, had the circumstances of his parents been reversed, might have insisted on the point. Asked if he _swore._ Possibly on his grave, or his blade, or something else sacred. But Papa only nodded, satisfied in Henry’s sincerity. Trusting him.

“Be safe,” Papa said, his shaky hand releasing Henry’s shoulder to tenderly cup the side of his face—the unbruised side. “I love you.”

Henry ducked his head, suddenly overwhelmed and trembling. Looking at everyone’s legs and dirty shoes, he answered in a squeaky voice, “I love you too. I love you all so-”

The rest of his proclamation was cut off as Henry was yanked forward into possibly the bloodiest group hug in history. Both of Abigail’s arms were occupied, but that was made up for in Anna and Luca each grabbing for him, the latter mumbling “Love you too, Hanni!” into Henry’s stomach.

Quietly, Henry finally allowed himself to cry for the first—only—time that night, face buried in his father’s chest, and gratefully accepted the comfort both Abigail and Papa offered him. Later, he decided, he could be strong, although he knew deep down, where he knew a great many things that he never needed to be told, that no one he loved thought he was weak, either, especially not now.

But if he let it go on any longer, Henry was dubious of his ability to _stop,_ so he pulled himself away. He was temporarily stalled trying to find a section of his hands or shirt to wipe at his eyes that wasn’t covered in blood or mud or whatever else, but was saved when his father did it for him with his thumb. Papa’s fingers weren’t quite as rough as Dad’s, not having built up nearly as many calluses over the years, but there was a sense of terrible strength and calculated, dangerous potential in them, which always had a way of making Henry feel protected and safe.

He swallowed heavily and nodded his thanks. “You need to get going. And stop bleeding!” Henry demanded, trying to inject a bit of levity into his voice, but the dark spot on Papa’s side had only continued to grow while they stood around, spreading all down his side and onto his pants. The visual proof of his father’s mortality unnerved him. “I still can’t believe you got shot.”

“My apologies, Henry. I have no plans to repeat the experience, so you don’t have to worry.” Papa was grinning at him, but it was strained, his face having lost quite a bit of its color. Henry most certainly had to worry.

“Take care of him,” Henry said to Abigail, before turning his attention to the sky to get his bearing. The moon was still pretty easy to see, even as thin as it was. No clouds blocked its visibility tonight.

“Take care of _yourself,”_ she groused, although it sounded fond to Henry’s ears. “Alright, you heard the man. Time to go. I think it’s—it’s this way to the truck, right?” Abigail gestured vaguely with her elbow.

“Yes.”

They started to move but were immediately hampered by Luca, who was rooted in place and not letting Papa’s legs move an inch.

Henry knelt on the cold ground, knee dunking into some kind of muddy slush. He suspected it wasn’t water. He cautiously reached for Luca, hands slow and gentle. “Did you see Dad get taken away by the bad men?” he asked.

Luca nodded, fearful as ever. Now that there were no strangers to rage against, most of his ferocity seemed to have left him.

“Papa’s hurt, and Abi needs to take care of him,” he said. “Someone has to go find Dad. I’m all that’s left.”

Luca looked like he wanted to argue, although Henry couldn’t fathom what alternatives his brother could possibly suggest. Instead, all he ended up saying, voice a broken whisper, “I want Daddy.”

Henry rushed to untangle his brother’s arms from Papa’s leg and gave him as tight and comforting hug as he was able. His brother just needed a distraction, something to get him through the next part of the night before everything was as it should be again.

“Hey, you think you can take on a very important job for me?” he asked. Luca hesitated a moment before nodding slowly. “Since I’ll be gone, and Abi has to be Papa’s doctor for a little bit, someone’s got to look after Anna. I bet tonight’s been pretty scary for her, huh? All these strange people and smells and super loud noises.”

Luca looked up, as if to confirm the terrible state their sister was in. Her face was mostly tucked into Abigail’s neck, but there was a small peak of one of her blue eyes, watching the both of them. Henry waited until he had Luca’s attention again to continue. “So for a little bit, I’m going to need you to be the big brother. Just for a little while, until I come back.”

“I _am_ her big brother.”

“Of course. But normally I do all the big brothering for the both of you, right? That’s my job. But just for right now, I _really_ need you to do it.” At Luca’s doubtful look, Henry added, “I’ll owe you.”

That did it. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

 _“Yes,”_ Luca hissed. He stepped away from Henry to reach up and grab ahold of Anna’s dangling foot. Henry supposed that was his version of watching over her for now. It would do.

“Thank you, Lucky.” To Abigail and Papa, neither of whom were doing anything to hide their amusement, he said, “See you soon.” He tried to grin, failed, settled on looking confident and not like he was a single strong breeze away from collapsing into the dirt.

They departed without another word, shambling as a single, odd six-legged beast. Henry wasn’t sure if they were more slowed down by the languid pace Papa needed or by Luca, still holding onto their little sister’s foot. He wondered how long she’d tolerate it.

Shaking his head, Henry turned toward the moon in the sky and had made only a few steps in that direction when his shoe collided with something hard and metal. It was the gun he’d thrown earlier. He picked it up and ran his thumb over the grip, feeling the trident of the Beretta logo that was etched there. As he walked through the woods, keeping the moon as his heading, Henry released the magazine, poking a finger inside to feel if it was loaded. It was.

Popping the magazine back in, Henry explored slowly until he found the safety, flicking it down to engage it—which was a harder feat that he’d imagined—before tucking it into his pants. If it came down to it, he’d rather use his knife should he encounter any trouble, but there was no knowing what kind of situation he was going to stumble into.

Plus, he thought rather smugly, there was no doubt in his mind that the authorities had taken away Dad’s gun—rather, taken Agent Crawford’s gun away from him. He’d need one.

Henry only hoped it, and ultimately he himself, would be enough to set his father free.

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  I'm alive!! Sorry for the delay with this chapter. I really appreciate everyone's patience. I'm going to try and get a few more updates out this week to make it up to you all. <3
> 
> Also I have absolutely been reading everyone's comments! I haven't been able to say it lately, but I am still completely blown away by the love this fic has gotten. Thank you all so, so much!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️  
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry finds Will.

Following the moon proved to be Henry’s most effective method of navigating, even if it did mean he slammed his face into a tree trunk or tripped over roots on more than one occasion. At least it was too damn dark for anyone who happened to be lurking nearby to have seen his humiliation. 

He’d just dodged another tree branch when the canopy he’d been traveling under disappeared from overhead. Suddenly he was awash in stars and moonlight, standing only a few feet from the fence that denoted their property’s edge. He approached it slowly, peering out toward the road that lay just beyond it. There was nothing there.

So, this wasn’t the exact spot. Henry had figured as much. They’d probably cut a hole in the fence somewhere else. They certainly wouldn’t have used the gate like civilized people—mostly because they weren’t exactly intruding on the family estate with civilized intentions, but also because Henry was sure the entrance leading to their long, winding driveway had succumbed to the ever-spreading fire by this point. If they’d used it before, they weren’t able to now. He’d just have to walk the fence line to determine where they’d camped out. 

Deciding to try closer to the house first—which was a little under a mile away, if he hadn’t gotten too far off course—he wandered along the fence, letting his fingers occasionally catch against the metal links. Henry had been running in fits and starts for what felt like hours now, going back and forth on his willingness to brain himself on low-hanging branches he couldn’t see. The culmination of the sporadic pace, the collisions, and his perpetually aching body meant he needed just a few minutes to recuperate and catch his breath. 

He  _ wanted _ to rush, of course, to find his Dad as soon as possible, but he knew it wouldn’t do them any good if he was too exhausted and winded to run later, when getting away as fast as possible would be critical. If Dad hadn’t been moved yet, it was possible he’d remain where he was until the authorities felt they had the situation under their control. That might be a while, though, given the slowly spreading inferno. It wasn’t spreading nearly as fast as Henry had expected, based on how far ahead of him it was. When it’d first started, it had felt like the fire was deliberately pursuing them and doing its best to suffocate Henry in the process. 

The smoke was definitely still in the air—he’d never really escaped it—but it was just uncomfortable now, didn’t make him feel like he was choking on every inhale anymore. But perhaps not all of that sensation was due to an external source. His earlier, panicked state could have been partially to blame. 

He couldn’t see the smoldering remains of their home from where he was yet; there was too much in the way. He hoped he’d find Dad before he got close enough to see that again. He was afraid the glimpse he already had would be far too ingrained in his mind as it was, that it would be all he’d be able to see instead of memories of their house whole and untouched. He had only brief impressions, flashes of movement or color or smell, of their villa in France. Maybe when he was younger, he had been able to recall more, but it’s mostly been lost to him now, after so many years. Only two memories in particular stood out with any sort of clarity: an older woman with long, black hair, speaking to Papa in angry, hushed tones while Henry watched, hidden behind a balustrade, and laying with a baby Luca on a blanket outside, sometime in the early days of summer. They were watching clouds go by, and the occasional breeze made Luca giggle every time it rustled the leaves overhead. Just a few weeks after that afternoon, they would have to flee the country.

Luca didn’t remember any of their time there, of course. And now, Anna wouldn’t remember any of Italy. Henry at least had a vague idea of what their first home looked like, with its rich colors and large windows in almost every room, and a garden that Papa was only just beginning to tame, scaling back overgrown plants that, at the time, had towered over Henry. He wondered how much of  _ this  _ home his brother would be able to recall in later years. Eventually, maybe even the scant recollections Henry still fiercely hoarded of France would be gone, and it will be their home in Italy that was only wisps of feelings and images instead. 

Except… this. Henry didn’t think he could forget this night as long as he lived. Sometimes, Papa talked about his mind palace, about the rooms and locations he kept near and dear to his heart, memories he would revisit over and over again. Henry thought, if he were to construct such a thing, the entryway would be  _ this:  _ these burning woods he used to play in, enveloped in flames, the smell of smoke and blood permanently in the air and in his lungs. Cinders and iron. 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking for—keeping track of such things had never been his strong suit—but it was long enough for some of the soreness in his muscles to ease and his breathing and heart to regain their steady rhythm. He was rested enough to start running again, and was seriously considering doing so, when flashing lights caught his attention. They were hard to make out through the hazy night air and the spots that had begun creeping into his vision from directly facing the ever-encroaching blaze, but the flashes of blue light were enough for him to realize what he was seeing up ahead. 

Ducking back into the relative safety of the trees was… not ideal. But he was out in the open along the fence, easily spotted should anyone look his way, although he was partially concealed with his dark clothing. Ultimately, staying out in the open wasn’t worth the risk, so Henry sprinted for the woods again, keeping just far enough away that he could clearly make out the other side of the fence but he himself was hidden. He advanced as quickly as he could without making much noise, which, as he got closer to the roaring, crackling fire, became less of an issue. Any sticks snapped under his foot could just as easily be attributed to it instead. 

He could make out a few of the vehicles now, some sleek and black like the car Agent Crawford had driven up to their house. Others were local and state police, all clustered together along the sides of the road, a few hundred yards away from the turnoff for their driveway. They’d probably backed off due to the explosion or to make room for other emergency vehicles. 

Henry scanned each car as best he could, trying to determine which held his father. He wasn’t sure how dangerous they’d consider him, not without Agent Crawford there to tell them the true depths of his crimes. But then again, he did attack several officers and agents when they attempted to apprehend him. That alone had probably warranted a certain level of caution. 

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Henry realized he’d  _ have _ to get closer. The windows on almost all the vehicles were dark and hard to see through, making his task impossible from the safety of the woods. He couldn’t say with certainty if his Dad was or was not in any of them. The fence would just have to be enough to keep him concealed, Henry thought, creeping forward from the treeline. At least it got him to clear air again. The smoke had begun to fill his lungs with every breath in a way that was becoming uncomfortably familiar. He hoped there were oxygen tanks on the boat for reasons other than blasting it to pieces. 

There were a few men and women milling about, huddled in groups as they talked amongst themselves or on their radios. Whereas before Henry had only encountered the American authorities, here it was mostly Italians with only a sprinkling of FBI jackets throughout. Henry paused, eyed all the police carefully. They wore  _ jackets.  _ Not vests. 

Curious now, Henry stalked along the fence, staying low to the ground, and scrutinized every person he saw. He counted the jackets and  _ reflective _ —not armored—vests, reaching seventeen before he saw someone in thick Kevlar and a protective riot helmet. Four someones, to be exact. They stood nearly shoulder to shoulder, just outside a windowless van. 

_ There. _ That had to be where Dad was being held. Unfortunately, the van was right in the middle of the parked motorcade. Henry waited a moment and debated where his distraction would be best placed. As he did so, he wandered a little further down the fence, coming to a stop when he realized that there was an enormous piece cut out of it—just big enough for a single adult to pass through. Rather than use the gate, they just made their own entry and exit point, right here near the turnoff. 

Would it be smart to use it themselves? Henry couldn’t be sure Dad was uninjured, so the ease of entry may be essential for him, but he didn’t like the thought of trying to pass through so close to the center of the group. It was too out in the open, even with a distraction. 

Speaking of which, Henry needed to decide where and how to set off the explosion. He needed as few eyes as possible on the van, which meant it had to be as far away as he could make it—not to mention, he’d rather not risk blowing his father up, a sentiment he’s sure Dad would share. 

The hole in the fence was toward the front of the assembled group, closest to the fire, and in the end, that was Henry’s determining factor. The less he had to try and sneak around, the better. He tried to envision how the vehicles might daisy chain, if such a thing were possible, but he’s probably watched too many action movies. Still, it was important he didn’t set off a cascading reaction that might affect the van before Dad could be freed. Thankfully, as he studied the layout, it appeared there was a bit of distance between the van and the cars ahead of it. The ones  _ behind  _ it were too close for Henry’s liking, but those wouldn’t be at risk of catching fire, so it was fine. The only significant risk they posed was if there were people inside of them. Which… there might be. He just couldn’t tell from here.

This whole one-man (boy) mission was feeling more foolish by the second. But he couldn’t turn around now, not without even  _ trying  _ first. 

So, Henry concentrated on mentally ordering the necessary sequence of events. First, he had to slip through the fence without being seen. Then, he had to make his way to the front of the cars, choose one to use as his distraction. Stuff the scarf inside the fuel tank and light it.

Then… he had to make his way to the van,  _ dispatch the armed, armored guards,  _ and free his Dad from inside.

Dealing with four guards at once was going to be… tricky. Henry had certainly gotten a confidence boost from some of the things that had happened tonight, but that was awfully ambitious, even for him. 

Unfortunately, Henry just didn’t have time to sit around and internally debate a more detailed, thought-out plan of action, although at least having a general outline in his mind kept the whole ordeal from becoming too overwhelming. 

Just in case it had an inclination to cause him problems yet again, Henry paused to loosen his knife in its sheath and was glad he did so, since the damn thing was trying to get stuck again. He couldn’t remember if he actually wiped it off after the liaison. Probably not. 

Knife free, Henry took a deep breath and slowly let it out. If he panicked, his scent might draw attention. Although now that he’d had  _ that _ thought, he sincerely hoped the stench of blood wouldn’t do the same. If the smell of burning woods was as strong for them as it was for him, maybe they wouldn’t even notice him, his fear  _ or _ the scent of copper that clung to his clothes and skin. Edging past the cut and jagged metal in the fence, Henry wondered if he’d ever smell like himself again or if the blood and smoke had permanently become a part of him, seeped into his pores too deep to ever be washed off. He found the idea didn’t bother him as much as it should.

There was a vehicle parked close by, hardly any room between it and the fence at all, but it was just enough for Henry to sprint, half-crouched, and squeeze into the small space there. He stayed low to the ground but slowly rose to peek through the dark window on one side and out the other. It was empty. 

Most of the flashing lights were on the cars he’d already passed by; the ones up front where he was heading were unadorned, black and nondescript. One of those would do. 

Henry nearly choked on his own tongue when he crawled a few feet further along the length of the car, only to glance up over the hood and see a man standing right in front of him. Facing the  _ other _ way, thankfully. But the sight did make him jolt a little, which was irritating. It was only the steadying grip he had on the tire in front of him that kept Henry from jerking hard enough to rattle the fence at his back. 

_ Great,  _ he thought. How exactly was he supposed to get passed  _ this _ guy? There were several bodies and yards of pavement between Henry and his next destination. A few different plans came to his mind, each dismissed. Henry could shoot him, but that would be colossally stupid. Couldn’t crawl under the car, slice at his ankles, and pull the man underneath with him as that gave him far too much time to yell out for help or go for his own weapon. Henry could clamber up over the hood, leap onto the man’s back like a deranged squirrel. And as satisfying as it was to imagine—hooking arms and legs around the agent in front of him and slicing away indiscriminately at his soft underside—it was like an unholy fusion of the first two bad ideas. Too much opportunity for attention and makes himself too large a target. 

What he needed was for the guy to  _ move.  _ Swallowing down an entirely too loud sigh of irritation, Henry scoured the ground around him, trying not to feel terribly cliche when he picked up a sizable rock wedged under a tire. 

The question became where to throw it. He’d have to move almost immediately lest its origin is discovered. Coming to a quick decision, he took aim at a windshield further down the road, a few cars away from where the van was parked, and threw as hard as he was able. While the whole damn thing shattering in a spectacular shower of glass would have been amazing—if not delusional on his part, for even hoping for it—Henry  _ was _ pleased when the rock connected, and the windshield blossomed a large, spidering fracture, stretching nearly its entire vertical length. 

Once he saw the man’s head snap toward the sound, heard the boots of others crunching dirt and smacking on pavement in a rush to investigate, Henry slipped out from behind the car and silently ran toward another. It was the same tactic as in the woods, but with less noisy hazards beneath his feet and cover that was guaranteed to be wider than he was. 

It took a little longer than Henry expected for the cops to wander from the broken windshield toward his initial hiding spot, which gave him time to get much farther away. As he came nearer to the turnoff, he could faintly see more lights down the driveway. Fire engines, he thought. Maybe an ambulance for those injured in the blast, if they’d been in the area. He doubted anyone would be coming up from that way any time soon. If they hadn’t left already, they were going to be down there for a while yet. 

Three cars in particular were parked very close together, near enough to one another that if there was a bit more of a reaction than just a fire from the gas tank, maybe all three would catch. That’d be distracting for sure. 

He chose the one in the middle, checking carefully that there were no eyes in his direction. Everyone seemed more concerned with the fence, which was exactly what he wanted. Quickly, Henry dug the scarf out from where it’d been a painful lump in his pants’ front pocket, digging into his leg whenever he lowered himself to the ground. He found the gas cap and pulled it off, stuffing the scarf inside as much as he could, hoping the end got dipped a little into the gasoline, and then pulled it back out so it hung down a few inches. 

He had no idea how much time this was going to give him. How quickly did silk burn? He could only hope it took long enough for him to reach the van. If he was lucky—very, very lucky—maybe he could catch the guards unaware. And then do  _ what _ with that opportunity was still a bit vague and undefined. Something. He had to do  _ something. _

Taking one quick breath to steady himself—and stop the shaking of his hand—Henry lit the scarf and bolted. 

He ran to the other side of the road, opposite the fence that bordered their property. Most of the attention seemed to be focused on that side anyway, on where he’d been lurking before. The van was several yards away and, thinking about his unknown, ticking time bomb behind him, he decided to risk it and full out ran, heedless of the noise. This close to the fire, though, perhaps it didn’t matter. He’d become numb to the dull roar of it, almost getting to the point where he couldn’t imagine what his own thoughts sounded like anymore without a faint crackling in the background of his mind. 

Henry had worried, for a moment there, that the four men posted outside the van were not the only ones. That perhaps on the other side were  _ four more,  _ a circle of eight around the entire thing. That was not the case. There was no time to celebrate this small blessing, though. He still had to find a way to be rid of the original quartet, and unfortunately, they had not moved an inch to investigate with the others. 

Carefully, Henry approached the rear of the van and continued along the edge of the road, noting that it  _ did _ have a window, but it was covered. He traced his fingers along the stark white POLIZIA PENITENZIARIA emblazoned on its side. As he got closer to the front, he risked peering in to see if anyone was seated in the driver’s or passenger seat. No one. 

It was then that Henry made a pleasant discovery: the front cab was open to its back holding area, allowing Henry an unobstructed view of the inside. He could see his Dad, leaning against the van’s wall, strapped down in more places than Henry could count. His face was covered with some kind of mask. A precaution that seemed prudent, given Henry could also make out a red tinge along the edges of the device, which continued down to coat his throat and a good deal of his upper torso. 

Dad’s head lung loosely in front of him, an echo from earlier that afternoon that made Henry’s gut twist to see in person. 

But Henry also made another discovery, one that made his mission far more complicated: Dad was not alone. Seated opposite of him was another guard, pointing a rifle straight at Dad’s chest.

_ Shit.  _

Any strange noise emanating from within this van was going to bring down hell. Henry had no doubts that the agent stationed within—Italian or American, it was unclear from this angle—had standing orders to shoot Dad if he so much as sneezed threateningly, as did the four outside.

Henry retreated, turning to rest his back against the van’s cool exterior. His shirt felt damp and sticky, but whether that was from sweat or blood, he couldn’t even tell anymore. He didn’t  _ think _ he had much blood on his back, but who knew. He wasn’t in any position to check right now. 

_ Okay,  _ Henry said to himself.  _ You have minutes, most likely seconds, until you have your  _ one  _ shot at pulling this off.  _ There was precious little time to strategize. Bare minimum, the agent inside had to go down with no struggle, no thrashing, and no sound. His weapon could not be fired, no matter what.

Could Henry lure him out? Maybe, but that might get the others’ attention, and he needed time to free Dad of all those restraints. 

Taking out his knife, Henry allowed himself one idle moment. He reached for the passenger side door handle, careful to open it only a fraction. He let his mind go as blank as he could, focusing only on the distant, growing rumble of fire slowly engulfing the woods of his home. That was all he could hear, and the flames all he could see, even with his eyes closed. 

_ Underneath the visor, there’s a gap. The helmet doesn’t protect their neck,  _ Henry told himself on an inhale.  _ The mask was thick, but not impenetrable. Cut deep,  _ on an exhale. If he aimed for the apple of the throat with the knife, grabbed for the rifle with his other hand, maybe he’d surprise him enough to wrench the latter free before it could be used. At the very least, he  _ had _ to deflect the barrel away. He could not risk another father getting shot. This one might not fare as well. 

Confident that he’d worked out something resembling a plan in the limited time he had left, Henry poised himself to yank the door open and leap inside with one single motion, hoping he could slip between the two seats up front and into the back before the agent within had a chance to react. 

And, of course, it was precisely that moment that Henry’s hearing was deafened by a second explosion. Today was his lucky day after all.

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Action Hero Henry to the rescue! (Excuse me, to the _escape facilitation_!) 
> 
> Will's now back in the picture. I wonder how the rest of the Lecter fam are fairing? Hmm.
> 
> Pardon the delay in updates again, my new laptop has decided to take "life is a struggle" quite literally and is chugging along at a very slow pace. It does not like cooperating with google docs at the moment.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry sets Will free, but for every problem Henry solves, another seems to appear...

It  _ worked.  _ For half a second, Henry was stunned, having lowered his expectations to causing a fire at best. While the explosion wasn’t nearly as big as the house’s had been, it was enough to gently rock the van, along with Henry leaning against it. 

Henry took one last breath and dived into the van, the sound of his graceless scrambling completely drowned out by a few well-timed shouts by harried and confused authorities outside. 

The rifle had been lowered. It was no longer pointing directly at Dad while the agent spoke quickly into his radio, asking for information about the blast, if he should move the prisoner. 

How unfortunate for him, that the radio should be affixed on his left shoulder, so that at this precise moment his face was turned away from the front cab, where Henry had already slipped past the seats separating them. 

Without stopping to see if his father had taken notice of his arrival, Henry pounced, closing the short distance and stabbing his knife up under the protective visor in front of the agent’s face and into his neck. Henry plunged the knife as deep as he could, pulling the blade through the meat of the man’s throat, tearing into his larynx as swiftly as possible. There was an urge in him to be thorough, to rip out the vocal cords with his bare hands and crush the man’s Adam’s apple into mush, just in case. 

But that was overkill, probably, especially when the agent weakly clawed at Henry’s arm, having let go of the rifle, and the only noise coming out of his mouth was a wet, sputtering sob, far too quiet to be heard more than a few inches away. Waiting for him to bleed out was going to take too long, so Henry flipped open the visor on the helmet, and stabbed him through the eye, putting just enough of his weight onto the handle without toppling the both of them over. 

Finally, the man went still. Henry removed his knife and left him sitting up against the interior of the van. 

Outside, Henry could hear the stampeding of feet intensify, the roaring growing ever louder. The fire must have spread. 

He turned to his father, who was watching him with an inscrutable expression. Henry didn’t have time to wonder what it meant and went to work, cutting all the restraints holding Dad in place with his blood-slick blade. The thick material required more effort than Henry had anticipated, and the knife kept slipping. The screeches it made whenever it connected with the metal walls or seat sent Henry’s heart rate into overdrive. It sounded so  _ loud _ inside the confines of the van. 

With all the straps Henry could see severed, he dropped the knife and dug out the handcuff keys. There was no way they’d get very far if his Dad’s ankles and wrists were bound together by a chain only a few feet long. 

Henry unlocked the cuffs around Dad’s wrists, whose hands immediately flew up to rip off the mask covering his mouth, revealing that Henry’s suspicion had been right: the whole of his lower jaw and neck were covered in dried blood. Henry idly wondered who it was his father took a chunk out of when arms suddenly enveloped him, pulling him into a very familiar, desperate sort of hug. 

It felt a touch callous to deny his father this moment of comfort and relief, but there wasn’t much of a choice. “We have to get moving,” Henry said quietly, urgently. He managed to pry himself from his Dad’s grasp, seeking to turn and run out the door when he remembered something important. “Here.” He tugged the gun out of the waist of his pants and placed it into his father’s empty hands that he still held out, eyes wide and slightly bewildered, like he couldn’t fathom how Henry wasn’t in his arms anymore. 

Dad blinked, swallowed heavily as he stared at Henry. “How did… How are you-”

“There is  _ no time. _ We need to go!” 

Henry didn’t wait to see if his father listened, squeezing between the two seats and out the passenger door, just the way he’d come. Because slinking around the confused, rushing packs of roving agents and dodging flames seemed less than ideal, Henry bolted away from the road and into the trees, this side not hemmed in by a property fence. The rapid footsteps behind him once he was a few yards from the road was a relief, knowing Dad hadn’t stayed behind in some kind of stunned stupor. 

Once they were far enough that Henry could no longer hear shouting voices, he veered left, running parallel to the road. They’d cross over as soon as they were a safe distance and completely out of sight. He’d have to trust Dad knew how to get to the clearing from there. Henry sure as hell didn’t. 

Dad had a different idea, though, because they’d barely been traveling for half a minute when hands grabbed for him. “Wait! Wait, Henry, stop.” 

Henry emphatically wanted to  _ keep going,  _ but he allowed himself to be halted and turned to rest against a tree trunk. “What?” he asked. It came out a bit more snappish and impatient than he’d intended.

“Nothing, I—I just… come here a second, would you? Are you okay? Whose… whose blood is-” Dad gestured vaguely at Henry’s, well, everything, his hands ever so slightly shaking. 

“Not mine,” Henry said with a shrug. “Mostly, anyway. I bit my tongue earlier. The rest is a few of them.” He pointed in the direction they’d come from. Before his brain could intervene, his mouth helpfully added, “Some might be Papa’s, too.” 

Henry knew he should have phrased that bit of news better when Dad went rigid, a terrible sort of devastation on his face. 

“He’s fine!” Henry said quickly, darting forward to hold his father up by the shoulders when he looked seconds away from just crumpling onto the ground. “He’s okay, really! It was just a graze!” 

“ _ What was? _ Where is he, Henry? Where are—why are you alone!” That last part was worded like a question, but it was awfully loud and growly, in Henry’s opinion. 

“Try to keep your voice down,” he quietly reminded, which was an odd thing to find himself doing. His father winced, likely thinking his frantic shouting had been upsetting for Henry. Truthfully, he just wanted to avoid getting shot at in the near future because  _ someone _ ’s voice traveled too far down the road. “He’s at the truck, along with everyone else. Just waiting on you.” Henry glanced toward the direction they’d been heading, then back at his father, brow raised. 

“And they’re okay?” Dad seemed both eager now to get a move on but dreading what he might find at the end of their journey. 

“Yes. Papa has a shallow gunshot wound in his side— _ and I’ve said he’s fine.  _ Abi would have tended to it by now. No one else has a scratch on them. Luca’s… a bit bloody, but none of it is his.” Now that he thought about it, Luca and Dad eerily matched in that regard. Who knew Luca inherited his bitey method of problem-solving from their  _ alpha _ father? 

Dad didn’t seem terribly reassured, but nonetheless, he gave a jerky nod. “Lead the way, then.”

That probably wasn’t the best of ideas, honestly, but Henry wasn’t going to say that. For now, it was easy enough to follow the road, so he wasn’t turned around just yet.

“I can’t believe you came out here on your own,” Dad grumbled next him between breaths. “What was he  _ thinking?”  _

Henry didn’t bother looking over at him, too focused on managing his own breathing and ignoring the soreness in his legs. At least they were moving  _ away _ from the various fires, even if the wind was slowly pushing the smoke toward them. Henry was starting to grow concerned about smoke inhalation, both for him and the rest of his family. It could not be good for any of them to be breathing this in for so long. Again, he really hoped the boat had oxygen tanks. 

Despite Papa’s command earlier, Henry found himself defending the plan anyway. “It was either me,” he said after a moment, “or no one. Papa needed medical attention, Abi was needed to give it. Both had to watch over Luca and Anna.” 

“The answer should have been  _ no one.” _

“Were we supposed to leave you?”

Dad didn’t answer at first. When he did, it was when they’d slowed to check out the road, see if the coast was clear yet. There weren’t any cars visible in either direction, nor lights. 

“You weren’t supposed to risk yourself for me.” 

Henry rolled his eyes and darted across the road. There was no point in responding to self-sacrificing nonsense, in his opinion. So long as it was in Henry’s power to keep his family safe and together, that was what he was going to do. 

Dad’s footfalls on the pavement followed after him, so Henry didn’t even need to turn around as they approached the fence. He could slow, try to climb over it or wait for his Dad to give him a boost but… a better idea came to mind. The fence wasn’t topped with anything sharp or dangerous, no barbed wire. Just a smooth metal surface that came right about to Henry’s chest.  

All Henry hoped was that he wouldn’t land wrong on the other side—the last thing he wanted right now was to end up with a broken leg or arm. But he was fairly sure he knew how to fall safely. It’d be fine. 

The words, “Here, wait, let me help you-” had begun to leave his Dad’s mouth right about the time Henry launched himself at the fence, running at full speed. He grabbed onto the top of the fence, heaving his body up and over, hoping his momentum was enough to clear it instead of getting caught up on the metal. It was close, the top of his shoe almost getting caught on a chain link, but he yanked it free before it managed to trip him. Henry landed with a heavy thud on his knees on the other side, scraping his hands on the ground when he went to catch himself. 

“Jesus, hey, you okay?” Dad leapt over the fence in one quick, far more graceful move, but then again, Henry thought in defense of himself, he was taller—much taller—and had years of practice. 

Henry looked to his hands, rubbed a little raw and covered with dirt. They were probably covered in blood too, but it was hard to tell in the dark. He wiped them off on his pants and nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Which way to the truck?” 

“Shouldn’t be far, actually. C’mon.” Gently, his father grabbed him under his arms and lifted Henry to his feet, pausing just long enough that Henry  _ knew _ he was debating in his mind on whether he should carry Henry all the way to the clearing. 

“I can walk.” 

A quiet chuckle in response, and Henry was let go. “I know.” With a hand between his shoulder blades, Dad steered him in the proper direction, glancing briefly at the rising plumes of smoke in the distance. “You guys really did a number on the place, didn’t you?” 

“Papa said it was  _ your _ plan.” 

Dad rolled his eyes.  _ “My  _ plan involved burning down the house, yeah. Not reducing it to splinters and taking the whole countryside out along with it. Christ, how long have you been breathing all this in?”

Henry shrugged. There was little point in lying, he decided. “A while.” Overall he felt okay, even if he wanted to be free of this hazy air as soon as possible. His throat and lungs burned, every breath and swallow making his insides feel like they were simultaneously made of sandpaper and molten lava. At some point, his nose and eyes had begun to run, which was irritating and not helping matters at all. 

“Thank God the boat is stocked with half a clinic,” Dad said quietly, pushing Henry into a jog. “Not exactly going to be able to check you all into a hospital after this.” 

That would certainly complicate matters, Henry thought, but he was confident in Papa and Abigail’s abilities to handle whatever medical care they might need. And as far as Henry knew, his parents never went to see an actual doctor anyway, even when they sustained injuries on hunts, always opting to patch each other up in the privacy of their own home instead. Sometimes Abigail would assist, if a second pair of hands were needed, and once, a few years ago, Henry was tasked with coercing Dad into accepting the occasional spoonful of soup after a round of antibiotics after a nasty knife wound left him nauseous and unwilling to eat. 

It was only a few minutes of running until Henry could see glimpses of the clearing ahead. From the angle they were approaching, they actually weren’t that far from where Henry’s siblings had been held captive. If they weren’t careful, it was possible they’d trip over one of the cooling bodies on the ground. 

Not long after, Henry realized they had a problem. Unfortunately, Dad noticed first. 

There had been more agents in the woods. At least six, from Henry’s quick count. Abigail and Papa were kneeling in the grass, hands behind their backs. His injury was likely preventing Papa from being more of an overt threat, as Henry noticed he wasn’t wearing the same mask Dad had been affixed with. Or maybe he just hadn’t tried to bite anyone yet. Henry didn’t immediately see Luca or Anna. 

It took every ounce of strength Henry had to grab his father and start tugging him away from the treeline, where he’d nearly bolted into view. It was like trying to wrangle a wild, rabid animal, but Henry finally managed to wrap his arms tight around his Dad’s middle, lacing his fingers together in a desperate attempt to keep the hold. 

“Dad,  _ please,”  _ Henry whispered into his back. A small, crazed part of his brain thought it was hilarious he found himself having to do this a second time tonight. It was a weird day when Henry had to be the voice of reason for his fathers. “Don’t, not like this.” 

As simple as that, Dad slumped, the fight going out of him as if someone had suddenly pulled his plug. He sunk to his knees onto the cold ground, Henry still clinging to him like an especially bloody, baby monkey. 

“This is my fault,” Dad said, voice hoarse and broken. 

Henry shook his head, pressed against one of Dad’s shoulders. “It’s not. They were probably already there,” he assured him, although he suspected his father meant more than just this particular turn of events. “This isn’t anything we can’t handle.” 

While he  _ sounded _ certain of that fact, Henry couldn’t be so sure himself. But it seemed the right thing to say to his Dad at the moment. He wished  _ so much _ that they had time for Dad to properly calm down and start thinking sensibly. While an alpha’s rage in response to his family in danger could be a terrifying thing to behold… Henry’s father wasn’t bulletproof. No matter how angry he got, he wasn’t going to be invulnerable, so Henry needed him to be  _ calculating.  _ He needed a return to the careful, thoughtful monsters he knew his parents were capable of being. Nothing less would do tonight. 

Still, Dad needed a second to at least get his breathing under control—he was also probably trying to wrestle down his emotional response to the scene they’d stumbled upon, for Henry’s sake—so Henry took advantage of the reprieve. He didn’t relinquish the hold he had on Dad, afraid he might charge out anyway if let go. Instead, Henry relaxed, leaning against his father’s body, hoping the solid reminder of his presence would help calm him, as well as being the first time in what felt like hours that Henry was able to rest his own weary limbs. 

As he and his Dad breathed in tandem, Henry looked out into the clearing carefully. After a methodical recount, he confirmed there were only six men out there. He tried very hard not to think too long on where his little brother and sister were. Not in the arms of Papa or Abigail, not held by any of the agents. He didn’t believe the authorities from either country would harm such small children—then again, he  _ did _ bear bruises that said otherwise—but the only other option that came to mind was that they’d already been taken away. 

But if that was the case, why did his father and sister remain? They carted Dad off right away, and he was supposedly the less dangerous one between them, as far as the public knew. 

The answer came with a  _ seventh _ person walked out of the shed, Anna in her arms. She had a similar look to her as the liaison Henry had gutted—some sort of law enforcement, perhaps only here to help facilitate the cooperation between the two countries. 

The woman held something up, dangling from the fingers of her free hand. She said something to the others, but Henry couldn’t hear. He squinted, trying to make out the objects. They were swaying slightly, hooked together with some kind of… string? It was when she swung them together with a bit of force, ostensibly in an effort to please a thoroughly disgruntled Anna, that Henry identified what they were. The bright lights were a dead giveaway. 

Henry’s eyes grew wide as his mind spun, and he realized what that meant. He leaned forward to speak quietly into his Dad’s ear. “They don’t have Luca. He escaped.” 

Of course, Henry should have expected his sudden statement to startle him. Dad had been staring with unseeing eyes at the ground up until that point, unable or unwilling to watch his husband and daughter sit idle at rifle-point. So, really, the accidental headbutt he found himself on the wrong end of when Dad’s head snapped up was entirely his own fault. 

For a moment, as he staggered backward and fell on his rear, he thought his nose had been too stuffed up from all the smoke to bleed. He thought wrong. 

“Oh my God,” Dad breathed out, turning and scrambling over to where Henry sat on the grass in a bit of a daze. 

“It’s fine,” Henry tried to say, but it came out rather wet and nasally. With a shaking, tentative hand, he reached for his face, felt the blood running freely down his chin, into his mouth. He spat some of it out onto the ground—he’d just  _ stopped _ having to do that—but the motion made pain flare throughout his entire head. 

“It’s not fine!” Dad hissed. “I might’ve broken your damn nose. Hold still.” 

“Hold still for-”  _ what _ didn’t quite leave his mouth, because Dad had grabbed a hold of his face, fingers gently pressing along the edges of one of the many bruises he sported, feeling for anything misaligned. Just when Henry was about to bat the hand away—because he was clearly fine, just like he’d said—Henry felt something… move. In his face. Something small, crunching in and out of position as his father’s searching fingers pushed on it. 

Henry only kept from screaming by slamming his jaw shut, biting his tongue, thereby reopening his wound, and howling only within the confines of his own skull. By the time Dad removed his hands, Henry felt like he was choking on blood and had to work very hard not to audibly cough to clear his windpipe of it all. 

“Yep, that’s broken,” Dad sighed, sitting back on his heels. He touched Henry carefully on the face then, far away from the painful mess in the middle. “I’m  _ so _ sorry, hon. I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking.” 

It wasn’t  _ that _ big of a deal. And, okay, Henry didn’t exactly need more obstacles to breathing properly, but he’d manage. He had so far. And yes, his face hurt like hell now, even more than it had earlier, the pain radiating from the center and somehow joining forces with the aching bruise that he’d earned to the side of his head, making it feel like nearly 75% of everything above the neck was shattered and throbbing. 

“Doesn’t matter. It’s okay,” he told his Dad, using his father’s shoulders as support to rise back to his feet. 

“Nothing about today is okay. Hannibal’s going to kill me.” 

Henry rolled his eyes, knowing that while Papa may have sometimes gone overboard with compliments, he’s not going to care about Henry’s  _ ruined beauty,  _ but Henry could see the dread etch its way across Dad’s remorseful face, one that he apparently resembled. Used to resemble. Well… Papa wasn’t going to care  _ right now,  _ anyway. 

“We need…” Henry paused to clear his throat. He was going to hate the way his voice sounded until this healed, he just knew it. Heaving a deep sigh, he spoke slowly, trying to clearly enunciate each word, “We need a plan, Dad.” 

“I know, I know.” Dad shifted into a crouch, turning to look out into the clearing with calmer eyes—at least Henry’s messed up face had served as an adequate distraction—though Henry saw how his Dad tensed when his gaze passed over Papa and Abigail. 

Seven enemies wasn’t an insignificant challenge for Henry and Dad to deal with on their own. Unless they could somehow get them all into the woods, there was no cover from gunfire. Add to that the risk of Papa and Abigail getting caught in the crossfire and Luca’s unknown whereabouts, it was overwhelming to even try to figure out a strategy. 

Henry, foolish boy that he knew he was, had been idly thinking not too long ago that at least the wind was in their favor, suffusing the entire area with smoke, thick and foul-smelling enough to cover up their scents. And he was still thinking this, even as the breeze blew his hair around, pushing it up and whipping it around the sides of his face. He smoothed it down, or tried to, noting the wind also made all the slowly drying blood and sweat on his back feel freezing against his skin. 

“Henry,” his father said slowly, reaching to grab Henry’s arm. Henry looked down, saw his father’s curls dancing around his head too, pushed from… pushed from behind them, blowing toward the clearing. 

“We need to run.” 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lecter's just can't catch a break! 
> 
> Updates are gonna pretty frequent while we hurtle toward the end here. I hope y'all enjoy what's to come!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry searches for Luca and discovers something fowl.

“There’s someone out there!” rang out from within the clearing, prompting Henry to pivot on his heels and run deeper into the woods, snarling about the  _ fucking wind _ under his breath.

Dad was right behind him, tearing through branches and underbrush that Henry either ducked or maneuvered around. He half-expected Dad to say something about his  _ language,  _ even though that was usually Papa’s job. Barring neither of his fathers stepping up to the task, Henry mentally berated  _ himself,  _ although at this point, it hardly seemed worth the effort. He’d given up on obediently following the house rules a long time ago, it felt like. 

Annoyingly, Dad stomped through  _ another _ bush rather than going around it, and Henry shot an irritated look over his shoulder. 

Dad was turned around as well, hardly looking where he was going at all as watched for their pursuers. It was then that Henry noticed his Dad deliberately brush up against a tree, leaving a clear and easy to follow blood trail. Not his own, of course. He’d been caught in the spray back in the van, and most of his front was liberally coated. 

“What are-” Henry tried to ask, slowing his pace a little. They’d rounded about a quarter of the clearing, circling it in an attempt to escape being downwind of the agents. An effort which was completely undermined when Dad was leaving behind breadcrumbs for them to track! 

But his Dad shushed him, catching up and dragging Henry off to the side. “Keep going. I’m going to lead them away.”

_ Oh no. No, no, not again.  _ “I just got you back! You can’t run off to be bait!” Henry argued as fervently as he could in panicked whispers, his voice thick. 

“If we can’t isolate them, we’re screwed. Henry, trust me, okay? I know what I’m doing.” 

For the first time in his life, Henry kind of doubted that. The look in his Dad’s eyes was not inspiring a great deal of confidence at the moment. He stared and stared at his father and knew, beyond buying Henry enough time to sneak around and reconvene with the rest of the family, there was no plan. No plan at all. 

Henry bit down the urge to scream.  _ This was stupid!  _ Working together was the safest, smartest option, even if one of them was only there as back up. It was dark, the fire was getting closer with every passing second, and Henry was now convinced the woods were  _ swarming  _ with the authorities. 

Dad pulled Henry close, speaking into the top of his hair. “Find your brother.” Henry glanced up, saw his Dad looking out into the darkness, an unmistakable tremble in his limbs.  _ Of course.  _ Henry had told him that Luca wasn’t in the clearing, which meant he was out there… somewhere. And he was alone. Getting him to safety was going to be Dad’s priority when all else seemed impossible. 

“Okay,” Henry answered, softening his voice though it sounded wet and choked up no matter what he did. Then, even quieter, “Please don’t get hurt.” 

Dad didn’t reply to that, just pressed a kiss onto the top of his head. “Get everyone to the marina. I’ll meet you there.” 

Except Dad hasn’t had the best track record of successfully making it to rendezvous. Henry almost wanted to laugh, but he didn’t have the energy. It would’ve only hurt anyway. 

“I’m going to loop back, try to lead them closer to the fire. Hey-” Dad lifted Henry’s blood and dirt covered face from where it’d been pointed at the ground. His hands were gentle. “I’m so proud of you. It’s only a little bit longer before it’s all over, okay?” Henry nodded; he knew that. One way or another, it was all going to end soon. “I love you,” Dad was saying now, uselessly trying to wipe away who-knew-what from Henry’s cheekbone. “So much.” 

Henry sighed, dropping his head as much as Dad’s grip on him would allow. “Love you too,” he mumbled. Now that his face was well and truly busted, he couldn’t allow himself to indulge in a second bout of ugly crying tonight. Not only would it be too painful, it would be a waste of time. He couldn’t quite stymie the urge to sniffle, but even that hurt. 

Everything hurt. 

Flashes of light, hazy and sweeping the trees, appeared over Dad’s shoulder. It was time to go. He pointed, prompting Dad to turn and look, which thankfully changed the expression on his face to something more  _ determined _ rather than apologetic. If Dad thought for a single  _ moment _ Papa was going to let them all leave for the marina without him, he really was losing his mind again. 

But both Henry and Papa could yell at him for being an idiot later. Henry, in what he would viciously deny as being any sort of goodbye, leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his Dad’s cheek, not even flinching when the action caused him to bump his nose. 

The physical pain at least gave himself something to focus on as he turned and ran without another word, wanting to get as far away from the approaching agents as possible before he had to stop and think. 

By the time he looked behind him, after running as hard as his body would allow for several minutes, he couldn’t see the lights anymore. Couldn’t see Dad. His only solace was that he didn’t hear any gunshots yet, which had to mean things were okay, right? So long as he didn’t hear that, everything was still fine. 

Henry paused to breathe, inhaling great, gasping breaths through his mouth, because that was his only option now. He’d made it to the top of the clearing, more or less opposite from where he and Papa had first approached it. From here, he couldn’t see the truck and could barely make out Papa and Abigail’s figures, unmoved for the moment. 

The shack had no windows, but he could see flickers of light peeking out of some of the planks. It had been a sloppily constructed thing, already been on the property when they bought it. At the time, it had been completely overgrown, nestled tightly between several trees. The dirt road the truck utilized was little more than a worn path, trampled into shape over many years. Papa said it had likely been used for hunting by the previous owners—they did get a fair amount of wildlife in these woods, after all, even with the fence. On the other hand, Dad suspected the people who had sold them the house hadn’t even known it was there. It hadn’t been included in the listing nor mentioned by the real estate agent. 

Henry was plagued for months with the disturbing thought that someone had lived in that ramshackle little building in secret, maybe for years, without the previous owner ever knowing. 

Just thinking about it again made Henry shiver, and he was grateful that his fathers had done an extremely thorough search of all the grounds, to the very edges of the woods. It’d taken them no time at all to find the—abandoned, they assured him—shack and claim it for themselves. It was cleaned, rebuilt in parts to be more sturdy, and fitted with a quality lock. Henry never went inside, but he knew all it housed now was their emergency supplies, no evidence left behind of its original occupant. Not long after that, they had found the duck pond, a little over half a mile away—Luca’s favorite place in all the world. 

And that was… it was… The gears in Henry’s mind stalled as he turned around, desperately trying to picture a map of the entire property in his head. The pond wasn’t too far that Luca couldn’t make it on his own; Henry was certain of that. He’d walked the distance enough times with his brother, holding his hand as he toddled around in excitement. But what he couldn’t quite remember anymore was the general heading. He’d always relied on Luca to know where they were going. Even in pitch-black darkness, Henry knew in his bones Luca would be able to find that pond. He was probably bothering and poking at the sleeping birds he loved so much right at this very moment, assuming none had run him off just yet. Or maybe they had gone, spooked by the loud sounds and approaching fire. 

For Luca’s sake, Henry hoped at least a few had remained for what was going to be his final visit. 

Henry closed his eyes, trying to control his nervous fidgeting—he’d been using the ragged nail on his thumb to claw at the itchy, dried blood on his skin, which was only making his skin even more irritated and uncomfortable. 

The last time he’d taken Luca to the pond was a few weeks ago, when the weather had been a bit warmer. Dad had come too, wanting to fish while Luca harassed the ducks. Of course, he would deny that was what he was doing, but there was no better description when his brother regularly made a game of chasing the birds in and out of the water. There were a few that were used to him, though, and even tolerated being pet and touched, since it meant Henry would reward them with handfuls of cracked corn when Luca wasn’t looking. They learned quickly enough that there was no reward for paying any direct attention to Henry.

The geese could not be as easily negotiated with, but Luca seemed to enjoy their feral, malicious nature and angry honking regardless. Henry was more than a little unnerved when Dad told them that the geese he’d encountered in the states were far, far meaner. 

Henry found himself wandering, picturing that trip in particular and using the memory to guide his feet. He’d run, try to get there faster, but haste would only get him confused and disorientated. He didn’t have the benefit of a celestial point of reference this time. 

It would be easier to navigate by smell, probably, since the trees closer to the pond were different from those near the house, older, greener, and usually leaking sap. But he couldn’t smell  _ anything _ anymore, except for the ever-present stench of copper. 

He didn’t bother trying to visually tell the trees apart either. They were far too close together, blocking out most of the light from the night sky. Instead, he tried to delve deeper into his memory. From where in the yard had they started walking? Did they wander closer to the road? Farther? Henry could never remember those kinds of details, even when he wanted to. He certainly hadn’t been paying attention then, focused more on chatting with Dad as they all walked together, Luca holding each of their hands with one of his own. Luca liked to be swung when walking with their parents, but Henry wasn’t strong or tall enough to do it. At one point, Dad had handed his equipment—just a tackle box and two polls, since Luca had other things he’d rather be doing than fishing—to Henry, so he could be free to lift Luca, let him dangle from his arms or outstretched tree branches like they were monkey bars.  

Henry was trying to remember if the thin branch Luca had  _ insisted _ could support his weight—but snapped in half almost instantly—had been before or after they passed the shack when he heard a quack. 

Not a real quack. Not from an actual duck. But a squeaky, high-pitched kind of quack. The sort his little brother was convinced sounded entirely authentic and communicated something meaningful to his duck friends. 

Half-thinking his hopeful brain had imagined it, Henry rushed toward the noise anyway, ignoring his lungs and legs and every other part of him that protested the exertion. He nearly tripped on a root when the pond came into view, open to the night sky and its surface dimly illuminated. He could see a faint, shimmery reflection of the moon in the water, and along the pond’s edge were a dozen dark shapes, curled in on themselves in near formless lumps. 

Among them was one larger shape, hunched over a quietly rumbling creature. It didn’t seem particularly annoyed, even though Luca was quacking at it, nor was it trying to move away. He must have found one of the ducks that tolerated him, then. Likely Luca had been around when it was born—the closest Luca had ever come to doing any kind of homework was trying to calculate, with Abigail’s help, when each nest was going to be ready to hatch. 

It wouldn’t be long before the fire woke the rest of them, and they flew off to safety. Henry was ridiculously glad this happened when it did, instead of a month or two from now, when there would’ve been eggs or newborn ducklings possibly left behind. Luca would have been devastated. 

As it was, all present would be more than capable of flying away when the time came. Luca had yet to notice that Henry had found him, so he stepped a few feet closer and cleared his throat. 

Luca went rigid with alertness, head snapping in Henry’s direction, and Henry was disheartened to see the skittish tension held in his small body. If only for his brother’s peace of mind, he found himself wishing the entire family had left hours earlier, just like Dad had wanted to. Henry didn’t look forward to the nightmares he knew would be born from this night. 

“Hanni?” Luca’s voice was so tentative and unsure, that Henry wasn’t sure what was scaring him until he remembered… Henry had to be an even worse sight now than he’d been when they parted ways not long ago. Or maybe he just couldn’t see him that well yet. 

“Hey, Lucky. It’s me,” he answered, stepping closer and keeping his voice low and calm. “Who’s your friend?” 

“Paris,” Luca said, his face suddenly brightening with a wide grin, the sight of which easing Henry’s heart back down his throat, where it’d been threatening to choke him. 

Luca relaxed and resumed his previous hunched position, patting along the duck’s back. Henry remembered Paris. For that nest, Luca had named all the ducklings after cities he randomly picked from a map. Rome, London, and Bucharest were probably nearby, but only Luca would be able to tell them all apart. Well, except for Bucharest, who was uniquely mean out of the bunch, and had the distinct honor of being the only duck to have ever bit  _ Henry _ because he hadn’t been fast enough in tossing the cracked corn she felt was owed to her. 

After carefully looking around—for  _ human _ enemies, not impatient waterfowl, not at all—Henry knelt near Luca, and because he’d likely not get a similar opportunity any time soon, joined in petting the smooth feathers down Paris’ back. She was still rumbling quietly, a noise Henry couldn’t quite discern as being irritated, pleased, or just plain snores. If she objected to the touch, she’d move or snap at them, so Henry didn’t worry about it. 

“So, Luca,” Henry said, several peaceful moments of duck petting later. “I found Dad.”

“You did?” Luca was wide-eyed, eyes shining even in the dark. 

“I did. Got him out, and he’s absolutely fine.” He paused here, not sure if asking was going to potentially upset Luca. He had to, though. “What happened, Lucky? After I left you?” 

Luca looked away, off at the pond for a moment before flopping onto the ground and sinking his face into the soft down spread out from Paris’ puddled body. “Bad men,” was all he said. 

“I know, I saw them. I need you to be more specific, Lucky. Tell me like a story. I walked away to find Dad and then…”

“An’ then the bad men.” 

There was trauma and then there was being a stubborn jerk, Henry thought, feeling so tired and frustrated and just wanting this to be  _ over.  _ But taking all that out on Luca would be both unproductive and unnecessarily cruel. If he had to drag this out of his brother, Henry supposed that was just how it had to be done. 

“Were they waiting for you by the truck?” he prompted. 

Luca’s head moved in response, but Henry wanted to be sure. “No? They weren’t there?”

“No,” Luca mumbled into Paris’ side. And she was really being an avian saint, enduring this. Or she was just a very heavy sleeper. 

“Okay, so you made it to the clearing with no trouble,” Henry said. He placed a hand on Luca’s back, rubbing gently and hoping that would coax him to speed things along. “What happened when you got there? What did you do first?” 

“Hug Cephy.” 

“I-what? Cephy was there?” It was silly, but Henry hadn’t even let himself think about what had happened to her, lest he worry himself to death over the old girl. He knew, since he’d let her out after dinner, that she would have had  _ some _ sort of chance, but he found himself beyond relieved she had found her way to safety. His dog was okay.

“In the truck,” Luca answered after a minute, still speaking mostly into the duck. 

Henry sighed, trying to think if he saw her during his brief inspection of the clearing. He didn’t think so. “Was she still there when you ran away?” 

Luca nodded. “Hiding.”

Well, Cephy was good at that, at least. “What did you do after hugging Cephy?” 

A slight grumble from his brother, unhappy with the incessant questioning, but Henry needed to know what happened before going forward. “What then?” 

“Then Abi made me sit in front, ‘cause Papa didn’t want me to see. He has a big band-aid now.” 

Another small relief, knowing Papa’s wound had been tended to. “Were you all still in the truck when the bad men came?” 

A shake for no. “Me an’ Anna was. But Papa wanted to look at the trees.” 

Which meant he wanted to watch and know the moment Henry and Dad had returned. Henry hoped he hadn’t been so distracted looking for any sign of them that he was caught unaware, but he doubted it. Papa always seemed like he had an infinite amount of focus and attention. It was why it could feel overwhelming—unsettling, sometimes—when he concentrated it all on one thing or person. 

“So you stayed in the truck,” Henry confirmed, “while Abi and Papa were outside, right? Did you see where the others came from? The road? The woods?”

“Woods, I think. But-” Luca paused, turning his cheek against Paris’ soft, brown feathers. It couldn’t have been comfortable for Luca to stoop for so long, but he didn’t look fazed. “They said something ‘bout a road. Trying to find where it goes.” 

“Were they talking among themselves or on their radio?”

“Radio.”

Henry bit his lips, wondering if that avenue of escape was already cut off from them. His gut said  _ no,  _ because the road out of the clearing didn’t even connect with the main road that ran past their house. It’d take ages to route police to it or even find it, unmarked and unremarkable as it was. Even if they  _ were _ actively looking for it, Henry decided there was plenty of time to make it out.

Assuming they could leave soon, anyway. 

“How’d you get away?” he finally asked, rising to his feet and holding a hand out for Luca to do the same. Predictably, he refused it. 

“I ran.”

“Specifics, Lucky. You ditched your shoes?”

“Papa said-” Luca’s brows pinched, obviously trying to recall the precise wording. “He said the lights were a beacon in the dark, helping you find us. I didn’t want anyone else to find me.”

“And yet, I found you anyway,” said Henry with a warm smile. “Lights or no, I’ll always find you. C’mon, we need to head back.”

“But-”

Henry cut off the building protest with a raised hand—and was secretly surprised it actually worked. “Dad’s taking care of some of the police. But Papa and Abi might still need our help. Just a little bit longer, and we can all leave together, okay?” 

His brother didn’t seem keen on following after him, looking toward the direction the both of them had come from, then down at his grumbling, feathery companion. Without another word, Luca quickly scooped his arms up under Paris, lifting her to his chest. She quacked in annoyance, her webbed feet flailing in the air and her wings giving a few disgruntled flaps. But Luca’s arms were secured around her sides and chest, keeping her in the vague loaf shape she’d been sleeping in. Eventually, she gave up the struggle, slumping to hang her neck over the side of Luca’s arm. 

Henry blinked and watched as Luca stood and began marching off without him. 

“Um,” he said dumbly, his brain refusing to process the sight for a handful of grinding seconds. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

Luca didn’t stop walking, just called out over his shoulder, “You said we were  _ leaving.” _

“Yes. I did.”

Sighing, Luca dramatically rolled his eyes—his whole head, honestly—and said with a long-suffering, patient voice, like Henry was the greatest idiot in all the world and Luca pitied his poor, stupid soul, “Don’t you know what  _ imprinting _ is?” 

The rest of his body finally caught onto the fact that his brother was stomping away from him, so Henry quickly jogged to close the short distance Luca had gone.  _ “Yes,”  _ he hissed in answer, because he had  _ been right next to him _ when Papa had explained that very concept to Luca a few months ago. “What does that have to do with you stealing a duck? Paris doesn’t think you’re her Mama. She knows who her actual duck mother is.” 

“Maybe not Mama,” Luca conceded with a thoughtful noise. Paris quacked quietly, which—of course—Luca would take as her voicing her support. “But see? I was there when she hatched!” 

“I know that.”

“And I fed her grapes when she got big enough.”

“Okay.” 

“And she’s always liked me. Lets me pet and hold her. She sits on my feet when I read to her from my books. She likes animal stories and songs and plays fetch better than Cephy.” 

When had his brother had the time to teach a duck to play fetch? Henry was about to ask that, staring at his brother and the lump in his arms in disbelief, when he nearly ran into a tree branch that Luca had walked under. The last thing he needed tonight was another head injury. 

Luca’s voice was quiet and scratchy when he spoke next. “If we just left, who was gonna read her stories? She’d be lonely, Hanni.” 

Henry wasn’t so sure about that, but he knew what his brother really meant. He’d miss her too much. “What about the others? London and Rome like you a lot too.” 

“Yeah, but they don’t love me like Paris does. She loves me a lot,” Luca said, ignoring the unspoken slight against Bucharest, and planted a loud and obnoxious kiss on top of the duck’s head. She quacked lightly in response, but otherwise her sleepy, puddled form didn’t twitch. 

And, well, Henry couldn’t argue with that logic. “Who could blame her?” he asked instead, darting a hand out to quickly ruffle his brother’s hair. 

Luca jerked away, but he was giggling under his breath. Henry was glad he caught the small smile on his brother’s face before it was too dark to see him. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  I'd apologize for the pun in the chapter summary... but I think we'd all know I wouldn't mean it. 
> 
> 5 chapters to go!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry and Luca make their way toward freedom, but Henry realizes there's yet another problem.

After a moment of quietly walking side by side, the only sounds that of leaves crunching underfoot and the soft snores of a duck, Luca asked, concern clear in his voice, “Do you think Cephy will try and eat her?” 

Henry looked at the bird then his brother. “I think Paris can hold her own against the old girl.” Thinking about it, he was fairly certain Cocker Spaniels and similar breeds were supposed to be bird hunting dogs, but Cephy had about all the instincts of a bean bag chair. He wasn’t worried about it. Honestly, Papa cooking the stupid duck was far more likely, especially if they had to be out at sea for an extended period of time. Maybe if they were very, very lucky, Paris would lay eggs and earn her keep aboard the boat. That’s if she didn’t just fly away at the first opportunity. 

As he was considering various solutions to keeping the bird from going airborne in the middle of the ocean, Henry noticed a wince briefly flash across Luca’s face. It finally hit him that his brother has been traversing the woods for a while now  _ without shoes.  _ “You doing okay? Your feet hurt?” 

“No.” 

Henry went to rest his face in his hands, only barely pulling back at the last second when he remembered his nose. “Hand me the duck.” 

That earned him a particularly nasty, suspicious glare. “Why?” 

It was tempting to reply with something sarcastic, because really, what did Luca think he was going to do? Instead, he sighed and lowered himself onto a knee on the hard ground. “Because you can’t hold onto me and Paris at the same time.” 

“What?” 

“Give me the bird,” Henry explained slowly. “So you can climb on my back. I know your feet hurt. I hadn’t even thought about the fact you’ve been wandering around all this time without shoes. C’mon, we’ll be faster this way.” They would not, but it was more important he prevented anything from hurting his brother. 

“You won’t drop her?” asked Luca skeptically, a boy who clearly had his priorities in order. 

“Pretty sure I can handle a duck, Lucky. We need to get going.” 

Luca, unfortunately, seemed unconvinced and squeezed the bird tighter to his chest. She squirmed in his grasp, feet kicking against Luca’s stomach until his hold loosened. 

“I swear, no harm shall come to Paris so long as I breathe.” To compliment his silly, formal tone, Henry even swept out his arm and bowed his head gallantly. 

“Duchess.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Duchess Paris,” Luca insisted. 

Well, that certainly confirmed something Henry had always secretly suspected about his brother. Later in life, Luca was going to become one of those crazy pet people whose animals all have absurd, pretentious names like Sir Fluffington the Third and Baron Von Whiskers. And he will, of course, have fifty of them, all with complicated and serious heraldry. Crests he designed himself. Ornate pet beds and food dishes of fine china and crystal. 

Henry blinked the horrifying images away. He cleared his throat and held his arms out for the duck. “I’ll keep the Duchess safe,” he swore, somehow keeping a straight face. 

Finally, Luca was satisfied, and Henry suddenly had an armful of grumpy, half-asleep bird. She did not appreciate being dumped from one boy to another and flapped against his head repeatedly until Henry managed to mimic the restricting hold Luca had held her in. It seemed to settle the duck somewhat, her agitated quacking growing quiet and pelting Henry only a couple more times in his stomach and bruised ribs with her feet. 

Bird comfortable, Henry gestured at Luca, who got the hint and climbed onto his back. “Try not to strangle me,” Henry reminded him when he felt those little arms tighten a tad too much. “Since I’ve got the Duchess, you’re going to need to really hang on with your legs too, okay? I can’t hold them for you.”

“’Kay.”

Hoping beyond hope that Luca wouldn’t just try to hang on via Henry’s throat anyway, Henry carefully stood, mindful of the added weight to both his front and his back. The bird wasn’t too heavy, not really, but Luca definitely was. He had to be careful, any sudden misstep having the potential to topple them all over. Falling flat on his face, while never ideal, held a considerably larger amount of dread now, as did accidentally crushing his cargo and making duck scaloppine. 

But the first few steps proved relatively stable since Luca had actually listened and hooked his legs around Henry’s waist. So long as he didn’t let go, he should hang on just fine. There was, of course, the problem of him being tremendously heavy, and the pressure Luca was putting on Henry’s battered torso. Getting enough air had already been a problem, but now it was even worse, especially since Duchess Paris—and he couldn’t believe he was actually  _ thinking  _ of the duck with that name now—had an unfortunate habit of puffing out tiny, microscopic bits of feathers on occasion. Henry became mildly concerned he was going to inhale one eventually. That seemed like one malfunction too many for his poor lungs that evening. 

Angling his head  _ slightly _ away from the duck, Henry trudged through the woods back the way he’d come, mostly via Luca’s high-pitched instructions in his ear. 

“No, turn  _ right,  _ Hanni!”

“You’re going the wrong way!  _ Not that way, Hanni!” _

“Hanni turn! Not that far!” 

Somewhere, in the back of Henry’s mind, he sweetly anticipated his revenge when Luca inevitably learned to drive. Henry was going to insist on being chauffeured  _ everywhere _ and had every intention in being as big of a nuisance as possible, all from the back seat. If it wouldn’t pose such a hazard, he’d dump an animal on Luca’s lap too and shriek every direction right into his ear. Alas, Henry did not actually want to die in a fiery car crash, so he’d omit those particular little details. 

With a sigh, Henry paused to catch his breath, resting his shoulder against a tree. At least carrying Luca around was straining  _ different  _ parts of his body. He might as well grind his entire corporeal form into dust while he was at it. When this was all done, he was going to sleep for a week. Literally, if he could somehow convince Papa to induce a medical coma. 

“C’mon, Hanni, this way!” was whispered in his ear after a few seconds of idleness. Henry eyed the way Luca pointed and came to a curious realization. 

“That’s the third time you’ve made me turn right, Lucky. What’s going on?” 

Luca didn’t answer, hanging on tightly with one arm so he could release the other and reach down to pet along Paris’ back with his fingertips. She—cooed? Purred? What  _ was _ that noise?—made an odd sound that seemed vaguely pleased, rubbing her bill on Henry’s arm. 

“Lucky? What are doing?” 

“Hiding.”

_ Shit.  _ Henry steadied his breathing, trying not to let his various aches catch up to him all at once. He had a feeling running was going to be required. Soon. 

“You’ve seen somebody? Or smelled ‘em?” he asked, taking care to lower his voice. 

He felt a slow nod next to his shoulder, and Henry tried not to swear out loud. He couldn’t smell  _ anything _ now, so the wind blowing cool, stinging air on his face was doing absolutely nothing to let him know who was with them in this section of the woods. 

Despite knowing what the answer was going to be, Henry had to ask. “Is it Dad?” 

An emphatic head shake, accompanied by a slight tremble. 

Henry hefted the duck a little higher in his arms, which she fussed only mildly about. He considered asking Luca if he could reach Henry’s knife, but he wouldn’t exactly be able to wield it in his current predicament and couldn’t ask Luca to do it for him. 

It was concerning that there were any of the agents left to roam the woods. It meant Dad’s plan to draw them all to him, toward the fire, had failed. It didn’t necessarily mean anything  _ bad _ had happened to him, but… then again, Henry didn’t know how many had even followed him out to begin with. The woman with Anna probably wouldn’t have. And at least one of the men armed with a rifle would have stayed behind, if not more. He wished he remembered how many he’d seen pursuing him and Dad earlier. There had been at least two flashes of light, but other than that, there was still too many variables in place. Speaking of which…

Edging away from the tree and toward the direction Luca had insisted they go, Henry quietly asked, “How many are there?” 

“I’unno.”

Henry bit back an angry demand, kept his voice soft. “Think about it for me, okay? Did the scent change at all? I know it’s hard. It’s been a confusing day, and there’s smoke in the air, too. But you have to try. Everyone’s a little different.” 

He felt Luca wearily rest his chin on Henry’s shoulder, heard him breathe in deeply, then delicately cough when he either smelled too much of the smoke or objected to the unfamiliar scents of strangers. 

Given that Luca kept turning him, Henry wasn’t all too hopeful that there was only one person waiting for them out there. That was confirmed when Luca finally spoke up, after having fallen silent in his concentration. 

“I think…” he started to say, before breathing in and coughing again. It was wet and right in Henry’s ear, but he didn’t care. “I think there’s two. Wasn’t always the same.” 

“Okay. Are they together?” 

“I’unno.” 

Luca was burying his face into Henry’s neck, even though there was no true comfort to be found there, and Henry knew he wouldn’t get anything else out of him. Best case scenario would be that the two men tracking them weren’t actively working together, or things were about to get very complicated, very quickly. 

He looked around their immediate surroundings, scrutinizing the various corners in the shadows until he spotted a downed tree a few yards away. It was relatively thick, surrounded by some bushes as well as its surviving stump. Henry carefully made his way over to it, trying to walk with more silent grace than he had been so far, weighed down as he was. As he got closer, he realized the log, the stump, and one of the larger bushes formed a perfect, small triangular space between them. 

Henry knelt, the signal for Luca to climb off, and remarkably he did so without further prompting.

“Hanni?”

“Climb in there, okay?”

“Why?”

He tried giving Luca a playful nudge with the duck. “To hide, duh. Go on, Lucky.” 

Luca didn’t move, and Henry wanted to tilt his head back to scream in frustration. He was beginning to see why Dad thought the Question Everything philosophy Papa encouraged was irritating. Sometimes, you just wanted to be obeyed without having to justify yourself. (Not that this revelation changed how Henry planned to conduct himself in the future, of course.) 

“You said two people were following us?” Henry asked, hoping he can explain the situation quickly. When Luca nodded, he continued, “Okay, well I need to make sure they stop. And if I’m doing that, I  _ need _ you to be somewhere safe. I have to know you’re safe. Do you understand?” 

Luca pouted, sticking his bottom lip out absurdly far, but to Henry’s shock, he dutifully stepped into the small, sheltered space and plopped down onto the ground with a huff. 

“I’ll leave the Duchess here with you to watch, okay? Babysitting the duck is  _ your _ job.” He tried handing the bird off, itching to get going, to take out his blade and track down the people after them. It was mildly annoying he had to completely rely on his sight or hearing to find them, but there was nothing he could do about it now. 

Luca had started to reach for Paris, but his hands stopped suddenly, fingers inches away from feathers. 

“I need to go, Luca,” Henry said impatiently, before spotting the horrified expression taking over Luca’s face. “What is it?” 

His brother’s voice was so, so quiet, halting and broken. “It was my job to watch Anna. You said—you told me it was my job too! I ran, Hanni. I ran and left her all alone!” 

“Woah, hey-” Henry awkwardly stumbled as he rushed to climb over the log and sit on it, getting as close to Luca as he could with the tight quarters and a duck in his way. “She’s okay. She’s  _ okay, _ Lucky. I saw her right before I came to find you. You didn’t do anything bad. It’s good you ran, Lucky, it really is. It was your job to watch her while Papa and Abi couldn’t. You can’t watch over her if you’re caught too, can you?” 

Luca shook his head, although he didn’t look very sure.

Henry risked removing one hand supporting the duck to gently touch Luca’s wet cheek. “I’m  _ proud _ you ran. It was the smart thing to do. And taking off your shoes? Genius. You did a good job, Lucky.” Calling the little monster a genius seemed to perk him up a little, and he smiled. “You’ve done a great job listening to me so far. And I promise, after all this is over, I won’t tell you what to do for a whole month. Deal?” 

Luca nodded quickly, laughter in his voice as he spoke. “Deal. Can… Can I have Paris back now?” 

Looking affronted, Henry leaned back and pulled the duck closer to his body. “Who? You must be mistaken, because this is my  _ very deadly  _ attack duck. If you take her, who’s going to bite the bad guys’ shins for me? I’m too tall!” 

“She is not! Gimme Duchess Paris back!” Henry was amazed Luca hadn’t begun to shriek in offense, but his angry demands were only harsh little whispers. 

“Nope, this isn’t any duchess. Her name is Chainsaw. I mean, look at this ferocious beast.” Henry adjusted his grip on the desperately-trying-to-sleep duck, holding her out to face Luca. His brother was rapidly becoming red in the face, largely from his efforts not to yell and throw a fit, Henry suspected, so he decided to play nice and give in. He made a show of turning Paris around to look into her beady little eyes and gasped in shock. “Oh no! This isn’t Chainsaw at all. She’ll be of no use to me in battle. Here, take your useless, posh duck.” 

This time Luca accepted her gladly, his previous worries forgotten. Paris was rapidly becoming miffed with her location moving so often and gave a halfhearted quack in irritation, slapping her wings directly in Luca’s face a few times before being locked down on his lap, unable to move. Truly, the bird had a bottomless wellspring of patience. Luca must feed her a  _ lot  _ of grapes, Henry thought. 

“Remember,” Henry said, leaning close now that he wasn’t blocked by Paris. “Stay here, stay quiet. I’ll come for you when it’s done, okay? But if it takes too long, Luca… If it sounds like I might not come back, you just have to run again, okay?” Here, Henry wasn’t sure what else to say, what further instruction to give. Run to the clearing? What if Papa and Abi were still bound, still guarded? What was Luca supposed to do then? 

As he considered possible scenarios, Henry was hit with a sudden, terrible panic, one that seized his sore lungs in an iron grip and made him feel vaguely nauseated. An image had come unbidden to his mind, and he desperately tried to shut it out. But now it was there and refused to leave—the thought of Luca wandering alone in the forest in the dead of night because Henry failed to return from the depths of the woods. He was cold, alone, and hungry. Almost like… too much like…

Henry thought he was shaking his head, trying to expel the idea forcefully, but after a moment, he realized it was actually his whole body trembling. There was no hope that Luca hadn’t noticed, as he’d reached an unsteady hand out to lightly touch Henry’s arm, a silent plea to know what’s wrong.

There was no way he was leaving Luca on his own, Henry decided. He couldn’t protect his brother if he wasn’t with him, and right now, keeping his brother safe was the only thing Henry was certain he was capable of. Nothing was going to happen to Luca. Not now, not ever. 

“Change of plan,” Henry said, clearing his throat. “Have you noticed this enormous bruise on my face?” He tried to smirk as he pointed, but he knew whatever contortion his face managed did not come across as the easy, self-depreciating smile he’d been aiming for. 

Luca dragged his eyes to the center of Henry’s face, even winced a little in sympathy. “Yeah. You didn’t have that before.” Well, at least Luca had determined it was best to be polite and not mention it before now. That was kind of him. “What happened?” 

“Wasn’t watching where I was going,” he replied with a shrug. Henry couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t a lie, and it also skirted uncomfortably close to the kinds of things abused kids on TV said. He’d explain how it actually happened to Luca later. He’d probably find it hilarious. “But the important part is that my nose is totally busted. I can’t smell  _ anything.  _ That’s going to make it really hard for me to find those bad guys all by myself.” 

This plan was awful, but it was the only one he could think of. Just avoiding the two—if not more—in the woods wasn’t going to be possible, not when moving toward the clearing was going to make them a far too obvious target. Henry carefully took out his knife, glad it wasn’t sticking and came out of its sheath smoothly. He held it loosely in one hand, dangling off his knee. 

Luca eyed the knife, looking at it, then at Henry, and back again. “And?” 

“And I need help, Lucky. Stay by me, tell me when someone’s close. You’ve been out here longer than me, so I think you can see better than I can in the dark right now.” When Luca didn’t respond, just continued to nervously hug his duck and stare down at the knife, Henry quietly added, “I’m not asking you to do anything else. Just be my eyes and… nose. My ears are fine. You can keep Paris with you, hide behind a tree during… while…” 

There wasn’t really a gentle way to say what would happen next, but he didn’t need to say it. Luca knew. The little menace was a lot smarter than he let on sometimes, playing up babyish behavior when he thought it’d work to his advantage, especially after Anna was born. Papa had said it was simply attention seeking behavior, brought on from jealousy of the new baby. And while it was  _ partially _ that, Papa had thought it was entirely subconscious on Luca’s part. Henry knew better. 

Even so, Luca was still so little; Henry was surprised he was handling the events of the day and evening as well as he was. Or seemed to be, anyway. Of what Henry could remember of himself at Luca’s age, he assumed he would have been a terrified mess under the same circumstances. 

Well. He  _ was _ a terrified mess. But would have been far worse at nearly five, probably. 

“Do you think you could do that for me, Lucky?” Henry gently asked. He wasn’t going to put the knife away now, no matter how much Luca looked like he was trying to wish it out of existence with the power of his stare alone. Henry couldn’t pretend violence wasn’t just around the corner for them. 

After several tense heartbeats, Luca finally gave a shaky nod. “Okay. I can try?” 

“All I ask,” Henry said after a long exhale. Moving to stand, he held the handle of his knife between his teeth and quickly lifted Luca up and over the log. “Walk carefully, okay? I can’t carry you for this, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself on an acorn or something.”

“I won’t,” Luca mulishly grumbled next to him, duck held securely in his arms. 

Henry nudged him in the shoulder as they walked together, trying to imitate Dad’s I’m-Serious look—Papa’s version would have been overkill—and said, “Not kidding. Just tread lightly. Who knows what could be out here.” 

“Leaves,” replied Luca, voice dull and monotone. “Sticks. Tiny rocks. Ants. Dirt. More leaves. Dog poop.” 

Henry paused and leveled Luca with a glare, stopping him in his tracks. This time he  _ really _ put his eyebrows into it, tapping the flat of his blade impatiently against his thigh. 

Luca returned the stare, unfazed. “Duck poop too, probably.” 

“I should leave you out here for the wolves,” Henry growled, eyes narrowed. He gently pushed Luca into moving forward again and tried to hold in his laughter. 

“You wouldn’t.” Luca held his chin high, confident and smug. And yes, of course Henry wouldn’t. The thought of wolves, which  _ did _ sometimes pass through the area, was yet another reason Henry couldn’t fathom leaving Luca on his own. Nowhere was safe for him, should everything go to hell. 

“Yeah,” Henry confirmed, free hand resting on Luca’s shoulder, guiding him back the way they’d come, but also serving as a way to keep him close enough to catch should he trip on anything and fall. “You forgot some, though,” he said after a moment. 

Luca made an inquisitive noise. 

“Spent casings.” Henry leaned over to whisper in a spooky, sing-song sort of voice, “Blood. Lots of  _ dead bodies.” _

“Ew,” Luca grunted with distaste, his whole face scrunched up. “How many?” 

Henry shrugged, a gesture lost on Luca who wasn’t looking at him at the time. “No idea. At least…” He stopped to count in his head, still only coming up with a guess. “At least nine, I think? There could be more now. Gonna be two more in a bit. Anybody yet?” 

They’d been talking rather quietly, hardly loud enough to be heard even a few feet away, but it was impossible to say for certain how far their voices traveled in the night air. 

To his question, Luca started to shake his head  _ no  _ but stopped mid-motion. Henry watched him stare at a fixed point in the distance. Without even checking it himself, Henry grabbed a fistful of Luca’s shirt and dragged them both behind a tree big enough to hide the two—three—of them.

“Describe everything,” Henry whispered to Luca, angling his head so Luca could speak directly into his ear. 

“Alpha,” Luca began. He swallowed heavily, already nervous. “Same one. He was with the other guys too,” Henry nodded, knowing Luca meant he was with the group in the clearing. He’d already assumed both of those facts, but it was good to have them confirmed. He gestured for Luca to continue. “Um, wearing a lot of black?” 

“Does the vest say FBI?” 

“No.”

Probably with the Italian authorities, then. Maybe just a regular, local police officer. “Did you see what he had on him? A handgun, a rifle?” 

“Oh. Rifle.” 

“Helmet?” He felt Luca nod against his head. From what he remembered, the Italian police he’d seen in the clearing—he was assuming they were all from the same group, anyway—had much the same gear as the Americans, which limited his ability to cut at them. He’d have to get close and go for the neck or back of the legs. 

How to safely get the man that close was an issue. The hurt child routine worked well enough the first time he tried it, although that had been helped along by his quarry not understanding what he was saying. While Henry’s Italian was fluent, it was possibly not without an accent. He spoke it most often with his parents, after all, and had probably picked up how they pronounced things here or there. But that oddity might be enough to give the officer pause, which would be all Henry needed. With his banged-up appearance, it should be enough. Had to be enough. 

Henry whispered one last time to his brother, “Anyone else? There’s only the one we saw just now? You need to be  _ sure,  _ Luca.” 

He waited, watched as Luca furrowed his brows before turning to carefully peer around the tree, scenting the air again. “Just him,” he said, a worried little quaver overtaking his tone. He wasn’t going to like this part of their adventure, but there was little Henry could do about it now.  

In thanks for his help, and because he could, Henry pressed a quick kiss to Luca’s grumbly head and rose from their hiding spot, ready for what new fun awaited him. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> It's been too long since fresh blood was spilled in this fic. Thank goodness we have Henry around to fix that! 
> 
> We're nearly at the end. My goal is to have the rest of An Unexpected Guest finished by the end of the week - with the last 3 chapters all going up at once in a mega-update. Fingers crossed!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry tests his hunting skills and receives assistance from an unlikely source.

Tucking the knife behind his back, Henry stumbled out from cover, legs trembling like a newborn deer. He doubted the police officer several yards away could see the entirety of his performance, but it helped to have a few seconds head start to get into character. 

He staggered between trees, sneaking glances in the vicinity he knew the officer was lurking. Without being backlit by the forest fire, the black get-ups of the various agents infesting their property were nearly impossible to see in the dark. He supposed that was the point. 

“Help, please,” he cried out, voice more hoarse than he expected it to be. He walked forward a few steps, not treading lightly at all, before feigning a stumble and falling to his knees. “I’m so scared. I’m hurt, please, where is everyone? It’s so dark.” 

It was easier to fake tears when smoke was filling his lungs. The fire was too far away for that now, only lending a hazy veil to the air. Not thick enough to choke on, not yet. 

“What’s your name?” a gruff voice demanded, a small distance away and staying put. This was one a little smarter than the rest, it seemed. 

“Paolo,” Henry answered, whimpering slightly as he pressed his nose into the crook of his elbow. It was absolute agony, wrenching pained, distressed sounds from him that Henry hadn’t even known he was capable of making. Perfect for convincing a concerned adult to draw closer.

“Where are your parents, Paolo?” The tone was softer now, almost comforting. 

Henry pressed harder on his face. “I don’t  _ know,”  _ he wailed. “They’re gone! Please, please help. I don’t know where I am.” 

“Where did you come from?” 

The man had barely moved at all, advancing only a few steps. Henry hid his huff of frustration by stuttering out a sob and letting his arm fall from his face, delighting in the gasp of shock from the officer, who was at least near enough to finally get a good look at him. He must look something awful after everything that’s happened, the break in his nose having had time to bloom into a horrendous bruise and freshly bleeding. It was doubtful that the alpha could see all the blood that covered him, but he might be able to  _ smell  _ it. All blood smelled the same, thankfully. He needn’t know barely any of it belonged to Henry. 

A story formed in Henry’s mind, and it all rushed out of him in faux panic. “We were on a road trip. There a terrible noise, like a big bang, and the car went into a tree! Papá said he was going to get help, but he never came back. Please, please help me find him!” 

The louder and whinier Henry became, the closer the officer inched forward. The barrel of his rifle lowered bit by bit until eventually it was pointed toward the ground. 

“It’s all right, Paolo,” the man told him, voice taking on that authoritative, yet gentle tone adults in charge liked to use with kids. Henry hated it. “I need you to take a deep breath for me, can you do that?” 

He hadn’t even realized he had started to pant heavily, almost hyperventilating, but that had less to do with the act he’d been putting on and more due to the fact he’d been having trouble breathing for what felt like hours now. That medical coma idea he had earlier was starting to sound better and better, the longer he had to deal with any of this. 

Unfortunately, the man wasn’t giving Henry any clear opportunities, staying out of arm’s reach and not foolishly removing any part of his armor. Neither was he being unkind, though, having sunk to one knee and kept his tone soft, despite being an alpha. 

Something about the calm, coddling behavior, that soothing voice from a complete stranger, was making Henry itch to leap forward, caution be damned, and rip a chunk of flesh from the man’s face with his teeth. 

He didn’t, of course, mostly because there was still too much distance between them. 

Henry made a show of taking big gulps of air, half choking on them from blood getting into his mouth. 

“Please,” he repeated, trying to channel a bit of the desperation he’d heard in strained, piteous voices before. “Please, help me.” Henry held out a bloodied hand, the other still hidden behind him. 

Instead of falling for the trap, the officer said, “We’ll find your father, don’t worry,” and took a hand off his rifle to reach for his radio. 

_ That won’t do,  _ Henry thought, slowly rising to stand. He’d taken a single step when the man’s eyes snapped to him, and he held out an arm to keep Henry at bay. 

“Stay right there for me, all right?” 

Henry nodded his understanding and took another step forward. 

“Son, I need you to stay back. I’m going to call for someone to come get you, get people looking for your Papá.” The hand drifted back toward the rifle but wasn’t there, not yet. It would have to do. 

There wasn’t enough time for the rifle to be brought up properly before Henry dived toward the officer. He’d tried to immediately jam the knife into the alpha’s throat—it’d worked for him so far—but found his arm blocked. The blade jerked away from its destination, barely slicing into the man’s cheek before skittering along the surface of the helmet and nearly tumbling out of Henry’s grip. 

The alpha planted a hand hard in the center of Henry’s chest, pushing him half a foot away, and started to bring his rifle up as he rose and took a confused, half-stumbling step back.

“Drop the knife,” demanded the officer, all kindness and patience gone from his voice, his eyes flicking between the knife Henry held at his side and Henry’s face. 

Charade busted, Henry eased his mouth into a smile. “Aren’t you going to help me find my father?” 

“Drop your weapon,” he repeated. “Lay on the ground with your hands behind your back.” 

The only reason Henry hadn’t been shot yet, he assumed, was because he was a child. Perhaps this particular alpha couldn’t stomach hurting him if he could help it. The liaison certainly hadn’t flinched at striking Henry, even when he’d been down on the ground. Maybe this officer had children of his own, and a loving father would be more reticent in riddling a little boy with bullet holes. Even one like him. 

To test this—and really, this was not one of Henry’s better ideas, but charging again so soon wasn’t going to work—Henry slowly slid one foot along the ground and dragged the other behind him and disturbing the leaves on the ground. He toed at the tiny leaf pile he’d made, now several inches closer. 

Predictably, the alpha took a step back. “Don’t. Move.”

Henry allowed himself a small smirk at the contradictory orders and remained perfectly still. Not advancing forward, but certainly not dropping the knife either. The man had the choice of shooting him or trying to radio for back up again. Would he add that his assailant was a grade-schooler or leave that part out?  _ Young armed male, indeterminate gender designation. Oh, and he’s ten.  _

“I really am hurt, you know,” Henry said after a tense moment of silence. He hadn’t moved. “Not a car accident but… Actually, all of this was from one of yours.” Henry pointed with his left hand, waving it in the general area of his face and aching torso, not that the alpha could see the bruises Henry knew were forming under his clothes. “Didn’t catch his name, but he seemed to not have much of a problem with kicking a kid on the ground and busting up his face.” 

Now, the liaison  _ had _ punched him, just not quite where Henry was implying. He didn’t think the technicalities mattered all that much in this instance. 

“You come at him with a knife too?” asked the officer heatedly. 

Henry shrugged. “He had my brother.” Really, there was no further justification needed, was there? 

The man didn’t look like he agreed with that, but Henry noted his brows had pinched together in contemplation, carving out a furrow under the ridge of the helmet. “The little blond boy?” At Henry’s nod—because why deny it?—he asked, “You’re another one of Lecter’s kids?” 

He shrugged again, although this one was quickly followed up by a ghost of a smile. “Didn’t think you caught all of them, did you?” 

“How many more of you are there?”

Questions for questions was not Henry’s favorite game, but he didn’t mind playing along for a little while. As he was about to say something snippy, movement behind the officer nearly captured Henry’s attention; he managed to keep his eyes firmly glued on the man in front of him, adding a slow, Chesire-like grin. 

The movement could very well have been back-up for the alpha, but the way it moved between the trees suggested otherwise. Henry swallowed down the hope that it was his Dad, who was off being a noble idiot at the moment. It didn’t bear thinking about that something might have happened to him. He could only continue to believe his father was fine. 

Back to the alpha, Henry continued to smile as he idly rocked back and forth on his heels. “Who knows? Maybe my Papa had a whole litter, and we’re all around you. Behind every tree and in every shadow. Wouldn’t that be fun?” 

To Henry’s delight, the alpha really did steal a quick, sweeping look at their surroundings, scrutinizing each nook and cranny hidden from the night sky. Thankfully, whoever it was scurrying behind him had found an effective hiding spot, because the man leveled a glare at Henry that said he was not amused. 

After a pause, the alpha asked, “Is he dead?”

“Who? You’ll have to be more specific.” 

The tip of the rifle was vaguely gestured toward Henry’s face, either because the man didn’t want to remove a hand from it or because he wanted to remind Henry of the clear threat its presence posed. 

“Oh, him?” Henry pointed at his bruised head. “Probably. You never know, some people are pretty determined to survive, despite the odds.” 

“What did  _ you do?”  _

Henry hummed in thought, carefully cleaning out from under his nails with the knife, picking out dirt or blood. It was hard to tell. “Does it matter?”

Interestingly, the alpha briefly forgot his sense of caution and took a bold step forward. “I told you to drop the knife!”

“You did,” Henry confirmed with a nod. He was still picking at his nails, which were honestly in a pretty grimy state. At this point, he’d need one of Papa’s nail brushes. Maybe even the whole kit he’d bought for Dad that they kept in the bathroom closest to the garage. 

Which… had exploded. Oh. Henry’s mouth twisted a bit remembering that, his eyes drifting to the ground. The knowledge that his home was completely gone had floated in and out of his mind as the evening had progressed, not quite fully taking hold before something else demanded his attention. Earlier, he had been solely thinking about the tangible space, the memories he had of the outer shell and surrounding area. It hadn’t hit him yet, about the things inside. Objects with as many feelings and memories associated with them as the places they’d occupied. 

They’d lost another crib. Henry had no idea why that specific thought saddened him so much. It made no difference that they didn’t have his or Luca’s cradles; what was one more lost? 

Except they’d already lost so much. His fathers had likely expected to have to start their lives over again and again and again. It was inevitable, given who they were. But their children, Henry and his siblings, could never seem to hold onto any part of their childhood for long, and that was beginning to strike Henry as terribly unfair. Their toys, their possessions, all those pictures… Even the two Henry knew they could never keep. All sacrificed to the flames of their continued freedom. What a costly thing it was.  

The more he thought about it, of course, the more irate Henry found himself. He lowered the knife back to his side, a gesture the alpha seemed to accept as some kind of partial obedience, even if it hadn’t been dropped. While it wasn’t specifically this man’s fault, all this could be laid at the feet of the police. It was the fault of the FBI and any authority who couldn’t leave well enough alone. More had probably died this night as a result of their invasion than would have by his family’s hands over the next several months combined, maybe even in a whole year. And the ones who had died were unlikely to have ever been in their sights to begin with. 

They only had themselves to blame, really. They had themselves to blame for all of it.

The figure moved again in the corner of his vision, and Henry could hardly bring himself to care. Whoever it was couldn’t matter, not when that feeling was coming back, the rushing of his blood and the tingling that extended all the way down to his fingertips. How interesting to have it  _ before  _ a kill rather than after. He supposed that was anticipation, now that he had built up a bit of experience. 

Henry slowly tensed his body, erasing the languid, casual ease with which he’d been standing, concentrating on shifting his body weight until he felt like a coiled spring. When Henry raised his head, looking up through the strands of hair that had fallen over his eyes, the alpha took an instinctual step backward, looking like he hadn’t even realized he’d done it. 

The retreat was delicious, and Henry was considering taking a risk and advancing, just to see how many involuntary steps he could wring from his quarry, when a sound put a stop to any of his planning. 

A duck quack. 

The officer automatically turned his head, seeking out the source of the noise behind him. 

It was brief, nothing more than a second, but it was plenty of time for Henry. He darted forward, leaping at the last moment and bringing his knife down into the man’s chest. He’d been aiming for just right of the sternum, hoping to plunge right into the heart and avoid any bone.

Startled—and still confused by the sound—the agent toppled easily, falling flat onto his back, the rifle and both his arms crushed between his body and Henry’s. 

Given that he felt no terrible reverberation in his wrist, Henry could only assume he’d succeeded in avoiding the ribcage. The knife wasn’t moving, though, so Henry leaned into it, pressing as much of his weight onto the handle as he could while still keeping the rifle pinned underneath him. When the knife only sunk a few inches, Henry tried to wiggle it side to side, but that was as far as it went. 

Curiously, the alpha wasn’t screaming for help or trying to push him off. His exhaled breaths came out as strangled, wet wheezing. It was then that Henry sat up a little, took better stock of where he’d stabbed—much too high, too far to the right. In his attempts to course correct, he ended up missing the heart by several inches and puncturing a lung instead. 

Annoyed, Henry started to pull the blade free except… it was stuck. He yanked, pulling pained gasps from the man beneath him, but he paid no attention to those. Henry couldn’t tell if it was a rib, maybe, or the vest that the knife was caught on. Any shifting he did seemed to do next to nothing to loosen it inside of the man’s chest cavity. 

Because he needed to adjust his weight for better leverage, Henry lifted off the figure on the ground to kneel beside him, quickly tossing the rifle a few feet away as his body no longer kept it captive. He also removed the man’s pistol from its holster, chucking that just behind him, where he would remember to grab it later. 

It was only after several minutes of him struggling with the knife that a voice broke his concentration. “Hanni?” 

“Lucky!” Henry turned his head so swiftly he was sure he felt something pop. “Buddy, that was great. I know I told you to stay, but you really saved me there. Good work.” He was grinning wide, proud and impressed with Luca’s quick thinking. 

His brother lurked behind a nearby tree and didn’t look all that hasty to join Henry over by the slowly dying Italian police officer. 

“Just need to get my knife out, and we can go,” Henry assured him and scooted closer to brace one hand against the alpha’s vest and use the other to pull. 

There was at least  _ some _ kind of movement. Henry felt sure he was making progress. 

“I didn’t,” Luca said from behind his tree. Henry wasn’t sure what was scaring him—there wasn’t even that much blood. Most of it was concealed behind the vest, flowing out underneath it and seeping into the ground. Henry already felt it soaking the knees of his pants. 

“Didn’t what?” 

The knife wiggled. If he just  _ twisted  _ it, maybe it would sever whatever had it trapped. 

“Save you. I didn’t save you.” 

Henry looked up then, confused and a little irritated. “What are you talking about? You distracted him long enough for me to take him down.” 

“I didn’t,” Luca insisted. 

Henry sighed, turning back around and resting his forehead on the end of the knife’s handle. The knife that was stubbornly staying put no matter what he did. Holding the man down wasn’t going to work, since it seemed like just  _ one _ of his arms wasn’t quite strong enough to yank it free. 

An idea suddenly coming to mind, Henry stood and planted a foot on the alpha’s stomach, bending at the waist to grab onto the handle with both hands. He took in a slow, even breath and then tugged with all his might. The officer groaned—still alive, wasn’t that something?—when Henry braced all his weight on the leg pinning the alpha down. He wasn’t entirely sure what organ he was crushing underfoot, but what would a ruptured spleen really mean to the man now anyway? 

_ Finally, _ something moved more than just half an inch or so, and Henry felt the knife start to come loose. He gave one final pull, remembering to breathe in order not to strain himself, and it came free with an oddly metallic sounding snap. The ordeal over faster than he’d expected, Henry fell backward, tripping over the man’s legs and landing with a hard thud on the ground. 

“Hanni!”

Luca rushed to be at his side, giving the mostly-dead body a wide berth. He knelt on the ground, precious Duchess Paris still held protectively in his arms. “Are you okay, Hanni?” 

“Fine, Lucky,” Henry laughed. He hadn’t hit his head in the fall, his back and butt taking the brunt of the impact. “Just glad to finally get this back.” Henry held the knife up, wanting to admire the crimson sheen he knew he’d see. 

Well… there was blood, that was for sure. On the half of the knife left. 

In horror, Henry looked to the body—and it seemed like a body now, still and not breathing—and saw the other end of his knife sticking up out of the bulletproof vest. 

Almost like they had practiced it, the brothers said in unison, “It broke?” One a mere question of confusion, the other of stunned devastation. 

Because his mind desperately needed another topic, Henry cleared his throat and asked in a numb voice, “What were you trying to say earlier, Lucky?” He cradled the broken knife in his hand, finger carefully tracing the jagged, sharp edge that had replaced its tip. He’d lost over half its length, the blade now no more than two inches long. 

“What?” At Luca’s squeak, Henry looked up, shoulders slumped and eyes tired. “Oh. I didn’t—um… I didn’t save you. Paris got away. I was trying to catch her.” 

“You were-” Henry looked down at his wrecked knife then back up at his brother. “So the sneaking around… You were just… you were going after your duck?” 

Luca nodded while trying to hide his face in Paris’ feathers. 

“So that quack—it wasn’t deliberate?” 

“I caught her.” 

There was nothing Henry could do to stop the snort that escaped him then, even though it hurt like hell. He found himself falling forward and had to throw his hands out to brace himself or face-plant into the ground. The laughter bubbling out of him grew louder and louder, half hysterical, half wondrous that he’s alive— _ alive and victorious— _ right now because of a fussy duck and a preschooler’s tenuous grip. 

His whole body was shaking as he nearly laughed himself sick, every movement a searing agony in his face and throughout his middle where he’d been kicked. It hurt, everything hurt, but that meant he was there to feel it. He was alive, that man was dead, and his knife was broken. 

“Are you mad?” Luca asked after a moment, once Henry had calmed down. 

Before Henry could answer, a sputtering cough sounded the officer laying on the ground next to them. Not quite dead then after all. Henry crawled closer, shifted on his knees to straddle the man’s stomach. He looked from his broken knife to the shard that remained behind, lodged in the alpha’s lung. 

“No, I’m not mad. I just really liked this knife,” Henry lamented with a sigh, noting that the man’s eyes were glazed over, that he wasn’t really there anymore, even if his body lingered. The jagged end still had to be good for something, didn’t it? 

“Lucky,” Henry said as he lined up the knife with an eye. “Look away for a bit, would you?” 

“Wha—oh. Oh! Okay, I’m not looking!” 

Just in case, Henry glanced over his shoulder and saw Luca had his face thoroughly smooshed into the Duchess’ side. In response, her foot kicked out a little, and she bopped Luca gently on the top of his head with her beak. It only made him giggle. 

Satisfied Luca wouldn’t bear witness to anything he didn’t want to, Henry turned back to the face beneath him, eyes blank and seeing nothing. That was fine with him, he decided. He didn’t need an audience. 

The first plunge of the knife into soft flesh didn’t quite produce a scream, rather, it was some sort of alarmed wheeze. The second resulted in a pleasant little gurgle. After the fourth, there was really no sound at all other than the squish of meat being minced. Henry wanted to be frantic with it, but he was too tired. He settled for thorough, reducing the slack face into a pile of shiny red chunks, ripping it to shreds as best he could manage. All in all, it was far more reminiscent of the classic ripper than the artful indulgences of his Papa. 

Being careless and messy held a greater danger to it, he’d been taught. Left more chances for technical sloppiness to slip through, for evidence to be left behind. 

Though as Henry stood and surveyed the wreckage he’d made of what used to be a human face, he couldn’t help but think that while it may be riskier, making a big mess was a hell of a lot more fun. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry knew that duck had to be good for something after all! 
> 
> Next update will be the _mega_ update of the last three chapters! I can't believe this is almost over.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small reunion, a heart-to-heart, and the easiest choice Henry has ever had to make.

Henry directed Luca with hands on his shoulders, not letting him remove his face from where he’d buried it in Paris’ feathers until they were a few yards away and the body was completely hidden from view. 

“Anyone else nearby, you think?” Henry asked, trying and likely failing to wipe all the newly acquired blood coating his arms and hands onto his pant leg—these clothes were past the point of saving and would need to be burned. He kept brushing his hand against his also newly acquired gun, one he planned on keeping until the whole family was together again and on their boat. He wasn’t going to waste any more time playing around with another one of those officers. He was just going to shoot them and be done with it. His aim was decent enough, according to Dad. 

“No,” Luca answered him after looking and sniffing around a bit. He made a face in Henry’s direction, a not-so-subtle hint that Henry stank. Of course he did. He was covered in mud, sweat, blood, and who knew what else. At least there was  _ one _ benefit to his busted nose, he supposed. 

“Okay, good. Hand over Paris. Gonna carry you again until we get to the clearing. Just let me know if you notice someone, okay?” 

Luca nodded, not kicking up a fuss over the well being of his delicate duck this time around. She was definitely awake now, having given up on trying to sleep through this adventure from hell. 

Once Luca climbed onto his back and Henry was sure both of his charges were secure, he followed Luca’s directions toward the clearing, which, if his brother was to be believed, wasn’t far now. Henry hoped he was right. 

The trees were starting to thin as they got closer, and Henry began to worry about where the other officer had gone. Given Luca’s concern about being discovered as they trekked through the woods, he hadn’t expected the two to be very far apart, but he couldn’t have been that close if he hadn’t overheard Henry and the other officer as they talked—or the latter as he died. But according to Luca, they were alone, so where had the second alpha gone? Maybe he’d lost sight of them, doubled back to the clearing where a few had remained in order to guard the terrible Doctor Lecter. 

A handful of yards more, and Henry could just barely make out the shape of the supplies shack. He was about to turn his head and make a joke about finally being able to dump Luca and his new pet onto the ground when a throat cleared off to their side. Instinct had Henry hunch down and turn on his heel, ready to bolt for cover behind the nearest tree when the weight on his back was suddenly just  _ gone.  _

More than just the feeling of being unexpectedly unbalanced had Henry reeling, mouth opened to scream his brother’s name, but he was stunned into silence by delighted squealing. 

“Daddy! Daddy, you’re really here!” Luca was running full speed at the figure in the dark. One that became much clearer as Henry took a few tentative steps forward. 

Their father was already on his knees, holding his arms out and sweeping Luca into a hug the moment he was within reach. 

Henry let out a shuddering breath, relief flooding him as he approached the pair as they laughed and murmured things he couldn’t hear. Dad looked up when Henry caught up to them, his face an absolute ruin of bruises, with a slice through his cheek and a healthy dusting of soot and ash. There were probably other injuries, hidden by clothes and Luca’s small body, wrapping around their father’s body like a tiny octopus. 

“Hey,” Dad said, grinning like Henry’d given him the best gift in the world. “You found him.” 

“He wasn’t hard to find,” replied Henry. He just smiled back, not saying any of the other words that came to his mind then like  _ glad you didn’t get yourself killed.  _ While both earnest and true, it sounded more flippant than Henry felt like being at the moment. 

Dad stood, Luca still attached to him, and continuing smiling so wide and bright that Henry might have been able to count his teeth, had they not been covered in blood. “Thank you,” he breathed, one hand protectively cupping the back of Luca’s head. It was then that Dad noticed Henry’s arms weren’t empty. Leaning forward, he squinted and got within inches of the duck’s face before shifting his eyes up to Henry, a brow lifted. “Is that Paris?” 

The duck Henry carried looked identical to every other female that frequented the pond. Henry was baffled, but not surprised, that Dad too could tell them apart. 

“Duchess Paris!” Luca corrected, voice muffled from where his face was pressed up against Dad’s neck. 

“Right, sorry. Forgot I was in the presence of nobility.” To the duck— _ the duck— _ Dad bowed slightly before straightening back to his full height. “My apologies, your Grace.” 

Henry ignored Luca’s ridiculous little giggles and adjusted the bird in his arms. “So, what’s the plan?” 

“The plan is now we get the hell out of here.”

Henry’s brows furrowed as he tried to look around his Dad and toward the clearing. “Aren’t there more?” 

“Made a few loops and managed to get most of them after me, follow me out to the fire. Could you hear the gunshots?” Dad asked, nudging Henry slightly to get him moving. 

“No, don’t think so.”

Dad nodded, hoisting Luca higher up on his hip with one arm. “Thought as much. You were all the way out at the pond, weren’t you?” 

“What gave you that idea?” Henry laughed. Paris, apparently, took offense at this and quacked loudly. “There’s nowhere else he’d go. Didn’t expect him to try and take a souvenir, though. Think Papa will let him keep her?” 

“Oh, sure.” 

“Really?”

“Really. Especially if I say, ‘Absolutely not!’ before he can even give an answer.” 

That startled a laugh out of Henry, and he very nearly dropped the duck. When he looked up, Dad’s lopsided grin greeted him. It was a more calming, relieving sight than he would have expected it to be. But if Dad could smile and joke like that—like everything was normal and this was any other night—things must finally be okay, right? He almost wanted to ask about what happened out there, how he got hurt, what other injuries he was undoubtedly hiding, but none of that seemed pressing at the moment. 

Though something  _ was _ nagging in the back of his mind as they made their way back to the clearing. “You said most, right?” 

“Oh, yeah. A couple stayed behind with Hannibal and Abi, but by the time I got back, they were taken care of.” Dad sighed and tried to say the next part in a soft whisper so Luca didn’t hear. “Going to need your help making sure Papa takes it easy, okay? Bad enough he got shot, but he’s not as limber as he used to be and messed up his shoulder getting those cuffs out from behind him.” 

A dubious expression crossed Henry’s face as he tried to imagine convincing his Papa to take it easy because he strained himself due to being  _ old.  _ “If you’re lucky, Luca will be really clingy and won’t let him do anything for a few weeks anyway. That’s the best we’re going to get.” 

Dad scoffed and rolled his eyes, though he could tell Dad knew he was right. Henry adored his Papa, but saying his father was at times a vain creature was a bit of an understatement. Both of his fathers side by side probably did not serve as the healthiest of role models when it came to self-esteem and confidence—one was much too low, the other so high as to be orbital—but Henry liked to think he’d eventually fall into a nice balance somewhere between the two. 

“At least he’ll leave the navigating and most of the chores on the boat to me,” Dad grumbled as he stepped over a ludicrously tall and arching root. Henry couldn’t help but wonder what it was that it had adapted to grow over, what object or plant was now missing. It looked silly, all by itself. Like the tree had begun to raise a root to bid them farewell, only to give up in despair halfway through the motion. Perhaps, rather than the departing humans, it was waving goodbye to its burning brethren instead. 

This far from the house, the fire was just barely visible, casting a bright orange glow over the tops of the trees and between the trunks. There was a faint, thrumming hum in the background of Henry’s mind, the crackles and pops of destroyed branches likely just a figment of his imagination at this distance. He had no idea if fire trucks had arrived at the house yet, if anyone was trying to control the blaze. He thought maybe he would have heard the sirens, but there were moments of time when Henry couldn’t have heard anything at all, not his own thoughts, let alone the wail of a siren no matter how loud it was.

Henry rubbed at Paris’ neck with his thumb, feeling the odd texture of her feathers when pushed up rather than down. He cleared his throat after a moment, feeling strangely compelled to fill the silence. “Will you teach me to sail?” 

“We don’t have that kind of boat, hun, but when we’re settled again, I could see about getting something smaller, something meant more for fishing, maybe. You really want to learn?” 

“Um, will I have to fish too?” Henry tried not to flush in embarrassment, remembering all those times he’d joined his father fishing at the pond. How anyone thought such a frustrating experience could be relaxing was beyond him. 

Dad laughed, probably thinking about the same thing. “Nah. You sail the boat, I’ll fish. Maybe I’ll catch a marlin, mount it on the wall of the new house. Replace the antler motif with swordfish. What do you think?” Henry took a page from Luca’s book and buried his face in the surprisingly soft, downy feathers of the duck, hiding his laughter. He could feel his Dad’s eyes on him, could almost hear the smile in his voice, too. “No, there you go, being right again. There’s no way I’d bring home something like that and Hannibal doesn’t make a whole feast out of it. Can’t quite see him tugging the thing’s tail through its mouth, but I bet he’d try.” 

Henry accidentally inhaled too deeply while close to the bird and nearly choked on a floaty wisp of a feather. “Maybe he’d impale it on its own sword,” he offered, once his hacking and Dad’s concerned back pats had cleared his airway. 

“God, he probably would,” Dad said with a groan that dissolved into a chuckle. “You know, he always goes on and on about how much you look like me, but the older you get, the more I start to feel like that’s the extent of my contribution.” At Henry’s brief, wary glance, Dad reached over, ran a hand through his hair, looking immensely fond. “Not a bad thing, Henry. If all three of you ended up being carbon copies of Hannibal, I’d be… worried about the fate of mankind, maybe, but happy. Deliriously happy. Although I’d have to give up ever having a regular cheeseburger ever again.” 

“They’re probably not good for your heart anyway,” Henry said with a slight shrug. 

“Nothing about this lifestyle is good for me, let alone my arteries. It’s not like it was a cow that tried to give me little too close of a shave earlier.” 

_ Not a cow,  _ Henry thought.  _ A pig.  _ He looked up at the shallow gash in Dad’s cheek. It could have been a lot worse, he supposed. It’ll scar, but at least it hadn’t gone all the way through, cut up his tongue or gums. “Whose good looks have been ruined  _ now?”  _ he asked, exaggerating the nasal quality of his voice. 

“Ah, see, there’s a difference between husbands and sons. I’m now far more rugged and adventurous looking.  _ You,  _ on the other hand, have been horrifically maimed by your idiot of a father.”

“You said it,” Henry cheekily replied, laughing as he dodged out of the way of a grumpy flick. Unfortunately, the move made him have to jump over a fallen branch, the jostling just enough to bounce his knife out of its sheath Henry still had in his pocket. 

Dad quickly swooped down—his grip would have been solid enough to hold Luca to him just fine, but Henry’s brother was holding onto their father like he worried a roving tornado may pass by and attempt to rip them apart—and swept it off the ground. He was seconds away from handing it over without a thought before he saw the sorry state it was in. 

“What happened here?”

Luca chose that moment to wearily lift his head and examine the object Dad had picked up. “It got stuck and broke,” he answered simply and laid his head down to rest again. Henry despondently nodded in confirmation at his father’s confused expression. 

Dad looked between the two of them and inspected the ragged, bloody tip more closely. “Stuck in  _ what?”  _

“Not sure.” Henry was still irritated it had happened at all. The knife was the only object he’d taken with him from the house, and even  _ that _ had been ruined. “Might’ve been the vest? Or a rib, maybe.”

“Ah. So, not a  _ what.  _ A  _ who.” _

“It’s a  _ what _ now,” was Henry’s response. Corpses didn’t exactly count as people anymore, did they? 

Dad’s lips thinned, looking from the broken knife to Henry. He seemed like he wanted to say something but decided against it at the last minute. 

“You still want it?” was all Dad asked. 

At Henry’s nod, he tucked the knife back into its ill-fitted sheath for him where hopefully it would stay put. Henry wasn’t sure why he wanted to keep it. It was technically garbage now, and while not entirely useless, he’d be better off seeking a replacement. 

“Just broke off then, huh?” 

“Yeah.” Then, because the realization had snuck up on him the more he thought about the knife, Henry whined, low and piteously. “I never even got to  _ use it right.”  _

“And how would that be?” 

Henry watched his father out of the corner of his eye, keeping himself pointed forward as they resumed walking. He wasn’t sure if it was curiosity or something else he was seeing on his father’s face. He chose to ignore it, whatever it was. “It was a fish knife, right?” 

Dad nodded. “It was. Not sure where you found it. I lost it ages ago.” 

There was no way he was getting grounded after today, right? Henry considered his father with narrowed, skeptical eyes, wondering how exactly one would go about limiting privileges while out at sea. No TV was probably a given, but he never watched much of it anyway. Forbid him to read? No, never. From lounging in the sun and watching the clouds go by? Their boat—a yacht, really—may be luxurious enough to have an adequate galley and three staterooms—and Henry already knew who he’d be bunking with—but it wasn’t quite so large that whatever fresh, salt-tinted air Henry could get would be denied to him. And he certainly knew he’d never be sent to bed without dinner. 

Really, when he knew he’d be sharing the same limited outlets for recreation as everyone else in the coming weeks, what more could his parents honestly do? 

So, as nonchalantly as he could, Henry shrugged and said, “The basement.” 

A sigh sounded from Dad. “Could have sworn we had a pretty strict rule about that.” 

“Does it matter now?” Henry asked quickly, hurrying his steps. His father easily kept pace. 

“Henry-”

“Technically, the rule doesn’t even exist anymore, since the basement exploded along with everything else.” 

“Henry!” Dad reached for his shoulder, grabbing him and forcing him to come to a stop. For a moment, Henry refused to lift his eyes and meet his father’s gaze. He’d been doing  _ so well _ tonight. 

When he finally did, though, he found he was only greeted with the annoyed look on his father’s face. Other than that, he felt… fine? Well, sore, tired, and perpetually short of breath no matter what he did, but none of that panicky feeling he’d struggled with earlier in the day was surfacing. Why wasn’t he reacting to the clearly unhappy mood radiating from his Dad? Even Luca was starting to look uncomfortable, lifting his head to look around, concerned. 

If  _ Luca  _ could smell it, why couldn’t- 

Henry blinked slowly as two facts processed for him at once: his Dad had been speaking for some time, and Henry’s  _ nose _ was  _ broken.  _ He wasn’t reacting to any negative scents because he couldn’t detect them to begin with. Who knew his busted nose would have  _ two  _ upshots? 

Dad’s entire face seemed to frown, both of his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth pulling down at severe angles. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Um, no. Sorry. You were saying?” 

“Remind me to give you a real lecture later, because we don’t have time for this shit.” He ran an exasperated hand through his hair, tugging a bit at the ends like that would help him get the answers he wanted. He didn’t seem like he was going to let Henry move any time soon, though, so it would appear they at least had a  _ little _ time for  _ some _ of this shit. 

“I get that you’ve had a stressful day,” Dad began, immediately noticing Henry’s unsubtle eye roll. “That’s not the half of it, I know. But we’ve all had a pretty damn awful day at this point, Henry. We’re all tired and hurting and really sick of getting shot at.” 

To be fair, no one’s specifically shot at Henry yet, but that wasn’t relevant, so he said nothing. 

“It’s concerning, with all this hell breaking loose, that you didn’t stick to our rules. Of all the times to go through a rebellious phase, you choose now? And before you tell me, I know Hannibal suspected you’d been trying to work through overcoming some ingrained responses—and that’s great, honestly, I have no objection to that—but you’re trying to do it under some really dangerous conditions.” 

_ And that scares me.  _ Henry’s Dad didn’t have to say it for Henry to read those words clear as day on his face. He had any number of excuses to give, some real, some that sounded like what he assumed his Dad might want to hear. Chewing on his cheek—because his tongue has had quite enough abuse for today and his lips would’ve been too obvious a tell—Henry thought about how to answer. 

No matter what Dad said, he wanted to stick to his resolution if he could, at least until their ordeal was over with. But at some point, he supposed, he had to figure out where the line was between being an obedient son who should apologize to his father and a child needing to appease an alpha. 

But he had no idea, and he didn’t think he was in a state of mind to find it, not yet. 

For now, explanations would have to do. “I went down there to calm down. It was quiet.” 

Dad’s brow furrowed, and he reached out to sweep some blood-matted hair off of Henry’s forehead, anger gone in the blink of an eye. “Calm down from what?” 

Henry sighed. At least he was admitting this to the right adult family member. This wasn’t going to descend into an entirely  _ too long _ conversation about his feelings, but he’d definitely be getting hugged at some point. “Abi showed me some texts Papa had been sending her. There was a picture of you at a red light. You looked… upset.”  _ Terrified. Devastated. Like you were about to lose everything you held dear. _

Understanding dawned on his father then. “And that upset  _ you.” _

“I started getting all these thoughts that I couldn’t get rid of. Like it was all my fault you felt that way, and I was desperate to make it up to you. Like that was the only thing that mattered anymore. I didn’t like feeling that way, and maybe I had a panic attack? Felt like one.” 

Like Henry expected, Dad got that  _ look _ on his face and stepped forward, arm reaching for him—which, fine, Henry wasn’t exactly going to decline—but Her Grace, Duchess Paris, noticed a bit of light reflecting on one of the buttons on Dad’s shirt and tried to peck it off of him. 

“Woah, sorry there, Paris,” Dad said a laugh, stepping back out of the Beak-Zone. “Didn’t realize you’d become Henry’s little guard duck.” 

“Duchess Paris,” Luca cut in, correcting their father on autopilot, not even moving his head from Dad’s shoulder. 

Henry gave the bird a slow pet down her long neck, like an evil Bond villain. “It’s Chainsaw. Don’t you remember, Lucky? She’s my attack duck.”

Luca’s indignant squawk came predictably quick, right in Dad’s ear. “Is not!” 

Dad reared away from Luca, eyes squeezed shut in pain. “Don’t deliberately rile your brother up when he’s so close to my eardrums, please.” 

“Sorry. Her name is Duchess Paris. Not Chainsaw,” Henry said to Luca, tone as placating and earnest as he could make it. What he didn’t say was that as soon as he had access to the materials, he was going to make up a family crest for the Duchess, which would prominently feature a certain chain operated tool. Maybe the motto should be, “Revving our Beaks.” 

Luca seemed satisfied with the apology and dropped his head back down without another word. Dad was more suspicious, eyes darting between his two sons before he could really be sure the danger had passed. To be fair, that was smart of him. Luca could decide in twenty seconds that he didn’t accept Henry’s apology after all. It’s happened before. 

Eventually, their father relaxed, and he gestured for Henry to resume walking and continue their journey. Henry had thought that would be the end of their little discussion. He was wrong. 

“So, it helped? Being in the basement?” 

Henry shrugged, lifting Paris up a little higher on his chest. She took that as permission to  _ cuddle him,  _ and draped her long neck over his shoulder, curling her head to rest on his back. Henry began to wonder about how his brother had somehow managed to domesticate these ducks. Or maybe she was just tired. After all, they’d stolen her away from her bed in the middle of the night. 

But to answer his Dad—who was staring at him with a mix of joy and mild shock, since Henry had never interacted with the birds at the pond beyond clandestinely feeding them—Henry mumbled, “Like I said, it was quiet. Helped me think through a few things. Felt more centered, after.” 

“What kinds of things?” 

Henry shook his head. It was nothing he was confident he could articulate to his Dad, and he didn’t think he’d really understand anyway. Papa might. 

Dad raised a brow when Henry said nothing, but when even that failed to garner a response, he just shrugged and conceded with a chuckle, “Alright, keep your secrets then. Just know I’ll listen, if you change your mind.”

Relieved that the subject wasn’t going to be pushed—and because he hadn’t actually addressed what had brought the entire conversation about in the first place—Henry added, “The knife was on your workbench. I didn’t touch anything else, just saw the handle poking out underneath one of the shelves.” 

They were almost to the clearing now, Henry noted. He could see the large, uninterrupted patches of grass and the individual, weathered planks of the supplies shack. 

“Weird. I don’t remember bringing it down there. Hannibal must have used it for something. Why he chose to go into my workshop and take one of my descaling knives, I don’t-” He paused, something coming to mind suddenly, and excitedly snapped a finger in Henry’s direction. “The anniversary bouquet. I bet that’s when he took it.”

Henry vaguely recalled Papa’s anniversary gift to Dad earlier in the year. He remembered not being particularly interested in the symbology of the various flowers the bodies had been carved into, although he had recognized a daffodil. 

“The amaranth definitely would have required a thin blade,” Dad quietly mused to himself. 

Henry had no idea what that was and wasn’t going to ask. He looked out into the clearing just ahead and could make out the rear of the truck now, as well as two figures standing near it. Risking removing a hand from the duck, he gave an enthusiastic wave, trying to catch Abigail or Papa’s attention. Unfortunately, they were facing away from them at the moment. 

Luca took notice of Henry’s frantic movements, though, his head snapping up as he realized where they were. “Daddy, lemme go! Lemme go!” He barely gave their father time to respond, releasing his own hold to wiggle down to the ground on his own. Henry soon found himself faced down by his little brother, whose pointed glare and outstretched arms made his demand clear. 

Not that Henry had time to comply either, the duck quickly wrested from his grasp, much to her displeasure. Luca got himself kicked repeatedly and smacked upside the head with a wing for his lack of patience, but as usual, he didn’t seem all that fazed. 

Duck in hand, Luca was off like a rocket, his squeaky voice calling out for their other father soon drawing the attention Henry had failed to gain. 

“Luca, wait!” Dad ran after him, not comfortable with Luca by himself even for a few hundred yards, Henry guessed. 

Henry was about to follow at a languid pace, the end now finally,  _ finally _ in sight. They had everything they needed now. They could leave.

Except as soon as he stepped out from underneath the shade of a tree and into the moonlit clearing, Henry automatically traced the treeline surrounding them with his eyes, always worried more authorities might have made their way into the woods despite the fire.

Or maybe had never left. 

Henry saw a section of darkness near some of the trees move, saw the elongated end of a rifle adjust to follow the running path of his Dad, rushing to catch up with Luca. 

Many solutions came to Henry then, most immediately discarded for taking too long or putting his family at too great a risk. He’d never catch up to his father in time. Doubted he had the lung capacity left to scream out for them to duck or hide. Even if he did, the moment it would take them to process the warning and comply could be the moment someone he loved died. 

Instead of running toward Dad and Luca, Henry took off in a sprint toward the shadowed figure, the gun he’d lifted from his last kill already in his hand, safety off. 

The rifle jerked in his direction. That was good. That was what he wanted. Henry knew he’d never actually hit the crouched figure, not at this distance, not  _ running.  _ That kind of thing only worked in the movies. Didn’t stop him from trying, though. 

The air in the clearing exploded with two booming cracks, one much louder than the other but half a second later. Henry had the briefest of seconds to note with satisfaction that he’d gotten  _ close,  _ hitting the tree right next to the man. And then a force striking his torso spun him, his body twisting before smacking the ground with little grace or coordination. 

He’d expected pain—he’d expected the idiot to be a  _ better shot _ —and was a little surprised when all he felt at first was numbness radiating from where he assumed his shoulder used to be. It went all the way down his arm, even to his chest and side. 

There was more noise in the clearing. Yelling, maybe. A couple more gunshots. It all sounded murky and underwater, and Henry was having trouble paying attention to anything except for how cold the ground was. How cold he felt. 

If life was like the movies, Henry thought groggily, his mind having slowed to a crawling pace, this would be where it’d fade to black. 

Of course, his life wasn’t nearly as convenient as a movie. The numbness on his right side receded, just the tiniest bit, and Henry was flooded with unfiltered, raw agony for the longest second of his life before finally passing out. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  I bet y'all are real glad that “Next Chapter” button is already there, huh.   
> Also, please forgive me.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

If Henry were to rank his most regrettable life experiences, “Losing consciousness from pain and/or sudden blood loss for  _ only _ a few seconds after being shot” would rank fairly high. 

Top of the list, probably. Second would likely be the time he tried to take a comically large bite out of Luca’s fourth birthday cake before he’d been able to blow out the candles. But there was far less blood involved back then—less, not  _ none,  _ of course. 

As it was, there was… a lot of blood now. Henry had only managed to crack a single eye open and look at the mess of his shoulder before deciding seeing was not necessary for believing in this case. 

Feeling was more than enough. 

The pain, what he could sense of it through all the numbness, was excruciating, and even trying to shift so he wasn’t awkwardly laying on a folded leg was too much effort, too much agony to consider beyond a first attempt. All his previous thoughts of his body feeling like it was on fire, burning him from the inside with exhaustion and overuse, were now absolutely laughable in the face of this. It was like having a ball of molten lava dropped into a glacier. Slowly, ever so slowly, every inch of his cold body was being eroded away by blinding, incomprehensible pain. 

It was beginning to dawn on Henry that he had not been an especially cautious, calculating monster just now. In fact, he’d been a rather hasty, stupid one, if he was being honest with himself. He could just as well be laying on the freezing ground as a corpse instead of as a miserable, bleeding but  _ alive  _ boy, and for that he supposed he should be grateful. 

Granted, it wasn’t easy to feel grateful with a bullet wound, but he tried anyway, for want of anything better to do than stare up at the night sky and bleed. 

He should… do something. About the bleeding. It might only be his shoulder, but it was Henry’s understanding that the less blood he lost the better. It was only that moving in any capacity was so far beyond him, he might as well not have another arm. The shot one was completely useless. Henry couldn’t so much as muster the ability to move a finger, let alone any of its larger components. And his other arm, while the hand was responsive, required far more energy to lift than he was able to give. 

So he lay there, watching a cloud partially obscure a cluster of stars. He’d need to sit up to see the moon, probably. Maybe even turn around. He couldn’t be sure what direction he was even facing anymore. 

The pain in his shoulder seemed to grow more intense with every passing second, and there was so much blood now he could taste it in the air. Or maybe the taste was old, and his mind was playing tricks on him that it was fresh. It was unlike any other ache or physical injury he’d experienced before. Soreness from exertion he knew. Toothaches, even one so bad he had to go see a dentist, were not unknown to him either. Once he got his finger caught in a car door. It hadn’t broken; Henry had never broken a bone in his life. He would wonder if these pains were similar at all, but he rather doubted it. Dad had mentioned breaking his leg once after climbing a tree as a kid, and he hadn’t described this kind of agony. Not even close. 

Henry’s mouth felt dry, which was probably from all the coughing he’d been doing and being forced to breathe through his mouth for so long. It was easier to try to focus his mind on that particular discomfort instead of the more obvious sensation that should have his attention. 

He was beginning to catalog all the uncomfortable ways the broken knife and its stupid sheath were poking at his lower back when a slappy, rapid thudding—something he felt more than heard—approached his head. There were all sorts of noises happening out in the clearing this whole time, most of them loud, he suspected, but so muffled as to be indecipherable, like shouting underwater. Henry had not been paying attention to them deliberately. 

The slapping stopped near his head, and when Henry rolled his eyes to find the source, he found he was face to upside-down-face with none other than Duchess Paris. She was peering at him curiously, probably wondering why her preferred human carriage was neglecting his duties by trying to nap on the ground. He’d be rather useless to her now, he thought. 

He didn’t have long to think of something to say to the duck, maybe an apology that Luca would definitely have to carry her now—even though his arms were a little too short, and he had a bad habit of squeezing too hard—when something close by startled a quack out of her, and Paris quickly waddled away in another direction. If Henry strained his neck—and ow, he really should not have done that, why did he  _ do that _ —he could barely see the tuft of her brown tail at the very edge of his vision. But even that too was soon gone. The tail. Not his vision. 

His vision was fine. Fine enough. Vaguely spotty, now that he thought about it, some areas a little blurry. That was probably not a good sign, but he really wasn’t up for considering what it could mean. 

Quite suddenly the blurriness didn’t matter much, because Henry couldn’t see anything at all, something appearing in front of him and blocking out everything in his sight. It would have scared Henry a little, except when his eyes refocused, that something had been his Papa’s face, staring down at him. Papa’s hair was falling at odd angles, bangs in his eyes as he examined Henry with a detached sort of intensity. Somehow, that made a bit of the panic Henry had been desperately trying to ignore ease a little. 

He felt hands on him, cool, strong hands that felt good on his burning skin but felt like nothing where he was cold and numb, which was pretty much all of his right arm from the elbow down, apparently. 

Stupidly enough, all Henry could think of now was how it was such a shame he wasn’t ambidextrous. He’d tried to be, he really did. Spent weeks doing everything with his left hand, trying to force his brain to adapt, to gain the muscle memory. It hadn’t worked. Now he was going to have to go through all that a second time, and he no longer the luxury of just giving up and using his right hand anyway when it got too hard and frustrating. Because he was an idiot, he was going to have to relearn nearly every single one of his hard-earned skills all over again. 

That was, of course, only if Henry took the slightly hysterical approach in thinking the numbness he felt instead of pain meant that part of his body was now entirely lost to him. That was almost preferable to feeling anything in that general region again, though, if it meant the pain would be gone. Henry had to grit his teeth and close his eyes to keep from screaming when he felt his father’s gentle fingers—he  _ assumed  _ they were gentle, anyway, when they felt anything but—prod around his gushing wound. Was it gushing? What did one’s blood feel like when it was leaving the body in great droves? Paper cuts didn’t feel like much of anything when they bled. The various, small scars he bore on his body from Luca’s brutal teeth stung and bruised, but he remembered no difference in sensation from when they actively bled to when they finally clotted and stopped. 

When the new pains eased—leaving behind, of course, the blazing, radioactive hell-zone that had become his shoulder’s new default—Henry felt brave enough to open his eyes again. Papa was speaking. Unfortunate, considering the spoken word was a bit out of Henry’s depth at the moment. He could read his lips well enough, though. 

Why that was easier than listening, he didn’t know. 

Answering his father felt important, especially once he recognized a plea or two. “I’m okay,” he croaked, not entirely sure how loud his voice was being. “I’ll be okay.” 

A lie, of course. The arm was done for. They might as well remove it right now in the clearing. 

Papa repeated something specific a few times, waiting for Henry to comprehend, and it was with a growing horror that Henry realized it was, “I’m going to pick you up now.” 

“No! No, no, please don’t,” Henry started begging. He wanted to reach up and push his father back. Maybe crab walk away to safety. Could you crab walk with one arm? He was willing to try. What he was  _ not _ willing to do was be lifted, have his damaged arm dangle back and forth over the ground, every perilous swing a new surge of suffering. Anything but that. Any-

Papa was moving Henry’s arm—the  _ bad _ arm, the arm that should  _ not _ be touched—to gentle drape it across his middle.

That time, Henry did scream. He wasn’t proud of it, but he could hardly feel ashamed either. It was worse than piercing needles, flaming hot irons, or any other terrible thing Henry could imagine. His arm was pure agony, and he was barely settled from this new horror when Papa then moved to scoop Henry up under his legs and back. 

“Papa, don’t-” but it was too late. Henry was hoisted into the air whether he wanted to be or not, and he screamed anew. 

Once stood, Papa walked carefully, every footfall even and precise, toward the truck. Henry assumed it was the truck. He kept his eyes squeezed tight, focused on breathing and not whimpering too pathetically against his father’s neck. 

It was a futile attempt at calming himself down. Henry had expected, once held in his Papa’s arms, to have at least a little relief from his anguish. When it did not come, he was momentarily confused until he remembered: Henry could smell fuck all. The comforting, and most critically for him right now,  _ pain-reducing _ hormones of an omega parent were doing absolutely nothing for his recovery. Nothing at all. He might as well have been carried by Luca, for all the good it was doing him. 

Broken nose was now two to one, in pros versus cons—but this was a damn big con, in Henry’s opinion. 

At least being pissed off about something gave Henry a pleasant distraction, and when he saw the curly head of his Dad appear at Papa’s side, he even had something to glare at, too. 

“Is he okay? Hannibal, I heard him scream. Is he-”

“He’ll be alright, Will, once I’m able to tend to him. We need to go,” Papa replied calmly, his voice quiet and firm. Henry was happy to notice he could finally make out voices, so  _ something _ was improving. 

Dad tried to look affronted at the brush off, but it didn’t last. Instead, Dad looked from where Henry was partially curled in on himself, doing his best impression of a bloody armadillo, to his husband’s shoulders. “Here, babe, let me take him. Your arm-” 

“Is more than capable of supporting him. I need you to make room in the backseat for us.” 

“But-”

“Paris!” 

Henry blinked slowly, was considering turning his head but gave up part-way through. His head stayed attached to Papa’s shoulder. He’d been listening to his parents bicker over him, knew where they were walking, but was unsure where Luca’s voice was coming from. 

“Daddy, we need to get Paris! She’s running away! Daddy!”

Dad desperately looked somewhere to the side—where the truck was, maybe—and back at Papa. Luca’s screeching intensified. 

“Get the bird,” was all Papa said to him. “Abigail!”

_ If everyone could stop shouting, that would be great,  _ Henry thought irritably. He didn’t have the energy to complain, though, and resolved just to glare. He was pretty sure he was glaring. Except, oh, nope, he definitely wasn’t. His eyes were closed. Why was it so difficult to open his eyes again? 

“Pops, what- oh my god! He was really-”

“Clear the backseat of everything except the medical supplies. Now.” 

Henry heard Abigail’s feet hit the ground hard and one of the back doors get yanked open. After that, several items thudded into the bed of the truck, some soft, some landing with a resounding clang. He tried to look, see what his sister was carelessly tossing about, but the action was too difficult. 

“Papa, why is Hanni sleeping?”

Henry almost smiled. Luca hadn’t seen him get shot; that was good. He was—still seemed to be—too focused on his duck to notice anything terrible had happened. 

“Henry just has a bit of an ouchie; he’ll be okay in a minute,” Abigail hurriedly explained. “Why don’t you sit up here with Anna? I bet she’s lonely.” 

There was a struggle immediately, which was not at all surprising. Something metal got kicked—probably the truck. “No! I want Paris!” 

“She’s here! I got her. She’s, uh, not being very cooperative, but I got her. Where should I-”

“Dad, here, I’ll take her.” Henry wanted to laugh at the indignant quack he heard as a duck was exchanged. “Could you move-”

“Yeah, I got it. Christ, his eyes are closed. Is he awake? Henry?” 

“I’m not sure,” Papa said quietly. “Abi, move the passenger seat up.” 

“Sure, I can—I’ll do that. What else do you need?”

“M’wake,” Henry groaned, deciding to join the conversation. It wasn’t going to stop anyone from talking about him like he was a delicate piece of furniture being arranged, but at least Dad would know he hadn’t passed out. Again.

“You can sleep, darling. You don’t need to be awake for this. Will, get ready to go as soon as I’ve stopped the bleeding.” 

“Aren’t you going to-to remove the-”

“No,” Papa said. Henry felt himself being lowered very, very slowly and had a feeling pain was incoming. “It would do more harm than good at the moment. The only reason the bullet did not go through was because it hit bone.”

_ Lovely.  _ Henry was beginning to wish he wasn’t conscious for this part after all. And just as predicted, Henry being placed down on the plush, but ragged, backseat of Dad’s pickup was an entirely new excruciating experience. Jumping to number two on his regret list was the shriek the action pulled from him, because he immediately heard Luca and Anna start to cry and whimper. Even the duck sounded unhappy. Somewhere nearby, he heard Cephy’s muffled whining. Where was she? 

Once settled, the pain went back to normal levels, however normal a gunshot wound could feel, anyway. 

Something uncapped, and Henry doubled his efforts to open his eyes again, get at least some idea of what was happening around him. 

When he saw Papa holding a syringe in his gloved hands, Henry seriously debated whether choosing that moment to look would be number three or four on the list. He was leaning toward three.

Papa noticed his bleary, unnerved stare and told him, “This is for your pain. It should also help you sleep.”

“Don’t need sleep,” Henry protested, although he wasn’t sure why. Wasn’t he just thinking about being in a medical coma not too long ago? He’d literally wanted this.

But then, they were still in the clearing. Henry didn’t even know if the guy who shot him was dead yet. He was really hoping he was dead. It seemed a grave miscarriage of what passed for justice in the Graham-Lecter household to let a stranger that had made Henry  _ bleed  _ walk away with his life. Although maybe saving him to track down later would be a fun project. Less righteous than his Papa’s similar quest when he was a young man, but it would be  _ something.  _ An excuse to return to Italy someday, see the ruins of his childhood home. 

Papa hadn’t given much credence to Henry’s argument against sleep, though, because he was already pressing the needle into Henry’s arm. He hadn’t even  _ felt _ it, which wasn’t too surprising, he supposed, since it was injected into his bad arm. 

Still, that felt and looked wrong, and Henry wished he knew why he’d  _ watched.  _

“Really don’t need sleep,” Henry repeated futilely.

“Just rest,” Papa told him. He dug into the box at his foot, wedged into the footwell behind the front passenger seat. 

The truck was not moving. Henry couldn’t be sure of much anymore, the radiating pain in his shoulder mellowing out to a far more pleasant—well, palatable—stinging ache, but he could tell he wasn’t going anywhere. That seemed tremendously wrong to him. 

He tried to communicate this to his father. “Not safe,” he said, hoping he was easily understood. His tongue felt weird, words a tad bit slurred. 

It was possible he hadn’t spoken at all. He couldn’t really say. Papa certainly wasn’t going to respond to him, focused as he was on cutting away the parts of Henry’s shirts that were in the way of the wound. He didn’t care about the shirts being destroyed, not really. They were so drenched in blood, they were goners. No, the thought that suddenly annoyed him was that most of the blood was probably  _ his  _ now. That didn’t seem right at all. 

Henry’s head lolled to the side, just a little, and he could see into the front of the truck’s cab. Dad was in the driver’s seat, fingers tapping an incredibly rapid staccato against the leather of the steering wheel. Next to him was rather crowded, with Abigail, Luca, and Anna all crammed into one seat. As far as Henry could see, they were rather like nesting dolls, with Anna on Luca’s lap, him on Abigail’s. There was a duck there, somewhere. There had to be. He could hear the irritated quacking. 

“Stop it,” Abigail hissed, jerking her leg. That was probably directed at Paris. 

He could also hear Cephy’s low whining, but it didn’t sound like the noise was coming from the front. Maybe she was in the truck bed. 

Cloth being peeling from where it’d adhered itself to Henry’s skin—and… things that were  _ not _ Henry’s skin—was almost enough to have him howling, pain medication be damned, but Henry bit back the cries as best he could, grimacing and clawing at whatever he could reach with his left hand. Papa’s arm, probably, if he had to guess from the warm give underneath his nails. 

Papa didn’t complain, though. He ignored the indents no doubt being dug into his arm as he carefully stripped away the last of the fabric. 

Dad’s nervous, shaky voice came from the front, preceded by the creak of his seat as he tried to turn around. “Is he-”

“Will, start the truck. We need to be moving as soon as this is finished.”

“Is that going to be safe?”

“Safer than staying out in the open, yes.”

Henry didn’t quite catch his Dad’s response to that, because Papa was now applying pressure to his shoulder, attaching something to his wound. It felt tight, tight and horrible, and Henry desperately wanted to rip it off. But his left arm suddenly had no energy and started to droop from where it had been hanging off his father. It was caught before it collided with the floor. Henry expected it to be placed on his stomach or otherwise laid down, but it wasn’t. Papa simply held it between his own hands, still wearing the gloves stained red with Henry’s blood. 

“Go,” was all he said as he crouched in the footwell behind Abigail and company, staring down at Henry. 

“Right, okay. Abi, the rifle-”

Something metal exchanged hands. Henry heard it clink against the window on the driver’s side, a little ways away from his head. If that was going to be fired out the window any time soon, Henry was going to be annoyed. He was fairly certain, now that most parts of him had gone floaty in a non-horrific this—is-what-dying-feels-like kind of way, that most of his problems hearing after being shot had just been his ears partially shorting out. He’d never fired a gun without hearing protection before. It was painfully clear to him now why that was a bad idea. 

He felt the truck start, felt the vibrations under his body from the seat. Thankfully the light jostling didn’t hurt, or at least, didn’t hurt in a way that bothered him. Actually, he barely noticed his shoulder at all anymore. If he had to describe what the pain had diluted down to, it would be like if he’d charged full speed at a brick wall and rammed it. It still hurt like hell, but it felt like something that would eventually fade away after an hour or two. Maybe with a lingering soreness the next day, but otherwise, nothing too debilitating. 

He had a feeling tomorrow would not be like that at all, or whenever it was he next woke once sleep finally took him.

“Keep an eye out,” Dad was saying, probably to Abigail. “You’re sure they didn’t come from the road?”

“I’m positive. They were calling for backup to find out where it leads. They couldn’t have found it between then and when you showed up,” Abigail said patiently. Her voice was so even and calm, it made Henry wonder just how freaked out Dad looked. When she next spoke, it was with a gentle rebuke. “Lucky, stop. You can’t be down there.” 

“But I wanna hold Paris.”

“Paris is fine where she is. I need you up where with me and Anna, okay?” 

_ Should just let him,  _ Henry thought, the words a little fuzzy even in his head.  _ Worst that’ll happen is we stop suddenly and he gets brained by the console. Or Abigail kicks him.  _

At some point, Henry’s eyes had closed without his permission again. He worked at opening them and managed to only peek groggily out of his right. It was enough to see Papa had shuffled forward slightly to lean over him, eyes moving methodically over every inch of Henry’s face and upper body, likely trying to catalog each injury, commit to memory as he thought of all the meals he’d make out of the responsible parties. Most of them were dead already, unfortunately. Except maybe the sniper. 

And Dad, of course. 

The inside of the cab got darker as the truck navigated down the narrow dirt road. It was caged in by trees on either side, only wide enough for one vehicle to traverse at a time, and even then, new scratches from curious, overreaching branches appeared in the paint each time they took the truck out. 

“My poor boy,” Papa said quietly, fingers a mere whisper of a touch on Henry’s face. The way his father’s eyes tracked his fingers’ movements, Henry assumed he was tracing the edge of the bruise that was slowly spreading out from the center of his face, a mottled oil slick contaminating as much of his skin as it can. That didn’t hurt much either, thankfully, and—oh. Henry  _ had _ broken a bone before! He’d completely forgotten about it at the time, what with the gunshot wound sucking up and exploding back every ounce of pain he’d ever felt in his life, past, present, and future. Wait, a nose didn’t have bones, did it? No, it was all cartilage. It sounded much less interesting to say, “I broke some cartilage.” 

Tragically, at least some of the rambling nonsense in Henry’s head had made it out of his mouth, as Papa was looking at him less with concern and more with a fond sort of amusement, eyes soft and lips quirked ever so slightly. “No, my love, there are no bones to break in your nose. If you are still awake, you needed a larger dose.” 

Henry didn’t want to sleep, not yet. They were still on the dirt road, still in the woods. Once they made it to a real road, were on their way to the marina, then it’d be safe for Henry to check out for a little while. Although it wasn’t like he could do much in his current state. Maybe he just didn’t want the nightmares born from uncertainty to plague him once he was under for good. 

“I don’t think he wants any more drugs, Hannibal,” Dad said from the front, bravely coming to Henry’s aid. Given Papa was quietly hushing him, he was fairly certain he’d been muttering some of his thoughts again. 

“There’ll be no choice later. I’m not going to perform surgery on our son while he’s awake,” Papa snapped, one hand entwined with Henry’s good one. He was glaring rather intently at the back of the driver’s seat headrest. Henry didn’t doubt Dad could feel it. 

“But you said removing the bullet would do more harm?” 

“Removing the bullet  _ now,  _ yes. Shards of bone are another matter entirely.” 

There was a pause and an audible swallow before Dad spoke next. “That bad? Is his arm, is he-”

“I can’t say until I’ve been able to properly examine him.” Papa sighed, looked down at Henry. He ran a downright fidgety hand through Henry’s hair, pushing it off his sweaty, probably blood-stained forehead. “Even if the damage is minimal and less than I’m expecting, Henry—this will have consequences.” 

Honestly, it hadn’t even occurred to Henry that the man wouldn’t kill him, when he’d made the choice to act. He’d already accepted what he believed to be the inevitable result of his decision. Henry had only wanted—needed—to distract him long enough for his family to realize the danger and respond accordingly. And he did that. Henry could feel proud he’d accomplished what he set out to do. 

But all of that was far too much to say at once, especially in his current state. So instead, all Henry did was nod his head—a slight jerk of his chin, more than anything else—and whispered, “I know.”

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  He’s okay! Happy endings only in my fics, even for little serial killers. And for those wondering, Abigail dived into the truck with the two babies as soon as she heard the shots, so none of the other kids saw it happen. 
> 
> Next up is the last & longest chapter!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry wakes up, learns what repercussions await him, and has a long, much-needed talk with his parents.

Much to his amazement, Papa actually listened to Henry’s hoarse begging and didn’t administer another sedative until after the truck ambled out onto the back-road leading away from their property. He’d tried to weasel a few more minutes of alertness out of a desire to see them make it to the nearest motorway, but Papa’s generosity did not stretch that far. 

Henry had to content himself with knowing they hadn’t seen any sign of the authorities since the clearing. That had to be good enough until whenever it was he was allowed to wake next. 

After Papa gave him the sedative, Henry tried to count the seconds until he lost consciousness, like they do in movies when people are put under. He almost made it to three.

Henry’s next memories were only of flashes of time, seconds from when his eyes would briefly open before falling shut again. Glimpses of Papa’s face, of Abigail’s and Dad’s—looking haggard and worried—and the top of Luca’s head, poking up over the edge of his bed. The walls of his room on the yacht, painted that soft shade of green he liked. 

Once in a rare moment of lucidity, he was truly able to  _ realize  _ they were on the boat, and the relief he’d felt, knowing they had  _ made it,  _ was nearly overwhelming before sleep claimed him once again. 

The next thing he could recall with sort of clarity was distressed quacking— _ very _ distressed quacking—but it faded quickly. Sometimes he thought he heard barks, felt something wet and cold touch the fingers of his left hand. Each was always so fleeting, though. 

It felt like it’d been years before his eyes opened properly of his own volition, and when they did, the room was dark. Or rather, it was darkened. Henry turned his head as best he could and saw slivers of light sneaking through the thick, black curtains on his window. He hadn’t been able to notice before, but now he could feel the gentle motion of the boat underneath him. It was soothing. 

Tempting as it was to go back to sleep, actual sleep, Henry reflexively swallowed, only to realize his throat felt raw and ached horribly. Not the worst thing he’d experienced in recent memory, but unpleasant enough that there was no way he’d fall asleep again until he’d had some water. 

Trying to sit up on his own was a mistake, and sore throat or no, Henry yelped out loud when he moved to push himself up with his arms—both of them.

“Wha- Henry!” Leaping from a chair in a shadowy corner of the room, Henry’s Dad ran to his side and carefully grabbed him around his middle, helping him into a seated position. He turned his head to shout in the direction of the door, “Hannibal!”

Henry blinked a few times, still trying to get the sleep out of his eyes, and noticed his father was in a similar state, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hands before kneeling at Henry’s bedside. 

“How are you feeling, hun? Do you need—do you want some water?” Dad asked hurriedly, an anxious thumb rubbing along the inside of Henry’s left wrist. He nodded, water sounding like the best thing in the entire  _ world _ right now. 

There was a carafe of ice water sitting on a table not far from Henry’s bed, and soon a cool glass with a bendy straw was placed into his left hand, the good one. Even though he didn’t think he needed the assistance, Dad helped lift the straw to his mouth so he could drink.

“Take it easy,” Dad said when Henry had started swallowing huge, blissful gulps. He would have ignored the advice had the cold water not hit Henry’s empty stomach like a rock a few seconds later. He took smaller, slower sips after that, until the rough, itchy feeling in his mouth and throat eased away. Something in his face must have healed in the meantime, since he could breathe a bit—not much—through his nose and didn’t have to stop drinking in order to get some air. 

Dad smiled at him, smoothed Henry’s sweaty hair away from his face. “Better?”

“Yes,” Henry croaked. And wow, his voice had not improved any during his slumber. Now not only did it still have that vaguely plugged up and nasally tone to it, it was wrecked and scratchy. He sounded like a chain-smoking frog. 

Dad put the glass down on the table nearby and sat on the edge of the bed, hands never straying far from Henry’s face but staying outside of the enormous bruise he was sure was there. He wondered what colors it was now, if it was mottled and purple if it’d started to take on shades of green and yellow. 

“How’s your breathing?” 

Henry had already established for himself he could sort-of breathe through his nose, but he suspected the concern was more for his lungs and inhaled as large of a breath through his mouth as he could. The motion made his chest rise, which caused something to sting and feel taut in his shoulder, but otherwise, it was okay. His lungs felt a little sore, a settled ache somewhere around his diaphragm from all the coughing, probably. 

“Been worse,” Henry answered after a couple more deeply satisfying breaths.

“Good, that’s good. Hannibal had us all on oxygen for a while there, for the smoke inhalation. You were on it for even longer, ‘cause of the surgery.”

“Surgery?” 

Dad gestured helplessly at Henry’s shoulder, like he could have possibly forgotten about it. Henry shook his head and tried to compose a full sentence in his mind before speaking. Thoughts were still a bit fuzzy and hard to grasp at the moment. “No, I mean… How bad was it?”

“The damage was not as severe as I’d worried,” came Papa’s voice from the doorway. He smiled at Henry, at Dad on the bed, and crossed over to the window to pull back the curtain a little and let in light. Not much, but enough that it was easier to see them both by. 

Henry squinted at the gradual brightness. 

“Due to the bullet’s entry point, I’d been worried both your clavicle and scapula had been shattered. I would not have had the resources available for the type of reconstructive surgery that you would have needed, had that been the case.” Papa told all this to the curtain, rubbing some of the fabric between his fingers. Henry saw him take a large breath before turning and joining them on the bed, perching on the edge. He smiled down at Henry, but it was blatantly false, belying some unspoken fear Henry suspected he hadn’t been able to shake since the surgery. 

“But that wasn’t what happened,” Henry guessed. 

“No, it wasn’t. Your clavicle was indeed broken, but not to the degree that anything further than removing the smaller splinters and realigning the bone necessary. It should heal well enough with time. Can you move your right fingers for me, darling?” 

Henry had not wanted to move any part of his right arm any time soon, but something about the tight tension around his father’s eyes made him want to comply, however unpleasant the idea was. Thankfully, he was still being doped up by an IV. Wiggling his fingers was surprisingly easy. 

The sight made the top half of Papa’s body sag a bit, although not all the tension was gone. “Any numbness? Does your arm feel cold at any point?” 

Henry’s brows pinched as he tried to force himself to think. He’d been trying to avoid noticing how any part of his right side felt, in general. The pain meds seemed to be doing their job for the most part, making Henry feel semi-floaty and tired. Without really thinking about it, he raised his right hand slightly off the bed, stared at his fingers as they sluggishly obeyed his commands to curl into his palm and straighten out again. He reached out with his left, poked at various spots up to his elbow. While he wasn’t feeling much, he wouldn’t classify it as numb. 

“Nope,” he said, satisfied with his thorough inspection. “Did you take the bullet out?” 

“Once I was setting the bone, it was easy enough to do so.”

“Did you keep it?” 

Papa smiled at that, a genuine one this time, his entire face warming. “I did, in fact. Would you like to see it?” 

“Yes, please,” Henry breathed. Papa leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss on Henry’s forehead before getting up and leaving the room. 

Quiet laughter called Henry’s attention to his Dad, who had buried his face in his hands. He must have sensed Henry looking at him, because he shook for only a few moments more before lifting his face and regarding Henry with exasperated amusement.

This was the first time Henry was seeing his father in proper light for what felt like ages, and he was a little stunned by what he saw. He looked half-dead, one side of his face bandaged, the other sporting more small cuts and welts than Henry remembered seeing at the end. 

Worst of all was his eyes, Henry thought. They were red and terribly bruised, but Henry couldn’t quite tell if they were that way from a blow or a lack of sleep. From their sunken quality, he suspected the latter. 

Henry used his good arm to scoot himself down the bed a little, closer to his Dad, who was avidly studying the floor after he’d noticed Henry’s scrutiny. Henry reached out and put a hand on his father’s forearm. “You okay?”

“ _ Am I…?”  _ A disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m-” Dad stopped himself, exhaled a shaky breath. His next words were a near whisper, so low Henry could barely hear them. “Don’t ever do that again. Please, don’t-”

Henry tried for a self-depreciating smirk and said, “I’m not so dumb I’ll let myself get shot  _ twice,  _ so don’t worry.” 

The pained expression on his father’s face didn’t ease, however. “Don’t ever take a bullet for me again,” Dad repeated, voice tight. “I saw it. I turned a second too late, but I saw his aim change.” 

Henry couldn’t hold back a cringe. It’d been his hope they’d assume he’d been the target all along. 

Dad was looking up at him now instead of the floor. It was surprising to Henry that someone could look so overwhelmingly relieved and  _ furious _ at the same time. Surprising, and also a little alarming. He was rather glad his nose was still mostly out of commission. 

“I’d  _ just _ told you how much your risky behavior worried me. And then not even a few minutes later I have to see my son  _ get shot. _ Do you have any idea what that felt like?” 

Henry shook his head. 

“It felt like I’d died, right then and there. Like my soul got ripped from my body the second you started falling. God, it happened so fast, you were running one moment and the next you were on the ground and so… still. It was horrible, Henry. The single most horrible moment of my life and—and I’ve had a  _ lot  _ of them.” 

Dad breathed out again, a long, slow exhale until Henry was sure his lungs were completely empty, likely a small attempt at keeping his emotions in check. Dad  _ had _ said a real lecture was coming, but while Henry was recovering from surgery and a traumatic injury probably wasn’t the best time to start yelling. 

“I  _ never _ want to see something like that again,” Dad finally continued, his voice taking on a measured, calmer tone. For him, anyway. “Do you understand me?  _ Never again.  _ If you’re presented with a choice and it’s you or me getting hurt, getting shot,  _ anything,  _ if you can only keep one of us from harm, the answer is  _ you.  _ It is always, will always, be you. Is that clear? I will take a thousand bullets before I ever see you pull a stunt like that again.” 

“That’s not fair,” Henry complained quietly. If he could do  _ something _ , why wouldn’t he? What was his life compared to the people he loved? 

“Tough shit.” Dad turned a bit from where he’d been seated, folding his knee up on the bed to face Henry directly. He took Henry’s hand in his, squeezed tightly. “That’s the deal here. I raise and protect you. Teach you everything I know, even when it’s against my better judgement. Feed you and clothe you and love you with everything I have. And in exchange? You don’t make me have to watch you die.” 

It probably wasn’t a good idea, but Henry tried to crack a joke anyway. “So if I blindfold you first, it’s okay?” 

Dad’s eyes shut for a moment, trying to contain  _ some _ kind of reaction. Whether it was to scream at him for being a brat or give into laughter, Henry couldn’t say. He leaned slightly toward the latter, though, when Dad’s shoulders drooped and his hand squeezed Henry’s hand just a little bit tighter. “I’m serious. I don’t think I could survive it. Losing any of you… I think it’d break me.” 

“I’m sorry,” Henry said quietly. The apology came easily, with no reservations this time. 

A knock on the door prevented anything else from being said, although Henry wasn’t sure he wanted to voice the rest of his thoughts anyway. He didn’t sincerely believe his father would shatter from the loss of Henry or one of his siblings. It’d seem that way at first, probably. And maybe something, a  _ part _ of him, would break or harden. But Henry believed his father could suffer through anything, any loss, and manage to carry on. 

Except, now that Henry was really thinking about it, he couldn’t stomach the idea of being the cause of his Dad having to endure such a thing. In a way, Dad was right—he would likely never recover. The ghost of grief would probably haunt him forever, just like it did Papa, who had just entered the room, though Henry thought Papa liked to believe he hid it well. 

“I hope I haven’t interrupted,” Papa said as he crossed the room, like he hadn’t been lurking outside the door and listening for a prime moment to barge back in. 

“We were just reaching an understanding,” Dad said, daring Henry to contradict him. “Weren’t we?” 

Henry had no fight left in him, not for this. “Yep.” 

Papa looked between them, an amused quirk to his mouth, but he chose not to call them out on it. He resumed his spot on the bed opposite of Dad, sandwiching Henry between them. In his hand was a small, velvet pouch, almost identical to the one Henry knew his baby teeth were kept it, along with a lock of hair. Luca had one as well, but he’d yet to lose a single tooth. 

The bag was gently placed on Henry’s lap. 

Feeling a strange sense of gravity to the moment, Henry straightened since he’d begun to slouch on the bed. Carefully, he opened the pouch and emptied its content onto his leg. He picked up the spent round that tumbled out, turning it over in his fingers. “I thought it’d be more crumpled up,” he said to no one in particular, running a nail along the tip where it’d been crushed in on itself upon impact with his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what else he was expecting. For it to still feel warm from his body? For it to burn him, to reignite the flare of agony where it’d pierced him upon contact? 

It was a lifeless, dented hunk of lead. And with a shift of wind, a half-inch of deviation on the part of the shooter, it would have killed him. 

“What happened to him?” Henry asked, looking up at his fathers. The bullet sat inert in his hand, clenched in his fist. 

Dad growled, “He’s dead,” before Henry had even gotten the full question out. And while his tone was angry, it also sounded sort of disappointed, like he regretted the man had only the one life to lose and couldn’t have been killed as many times as it took for Dad’s fury to be quenched. 

Henry didn’t feel too let down, though. While there would have been something satisfying about ending the one who’d taken a shot at him, that was overall a rather dull revenge fantasy. It pleased him well enough that he was avenged by his father when it mattered most. 

“Good.” Henry tossed the bullet in the air and caught it one-handedly with a grin. “How long do I have to stay in bed for?” It was a foregone conclusion in his mind that he’d been relegated to bed rest, at least for a little while. He wasn’t about to argue with a former-doctor for a father. Or an intense worrier for one, either. 

“At least another day,” Papa told him, watching the way Henry fidgeted with the bullet in his hand. “I’m going to work out a regime for physical therapy, once you’re more recovered. You’ll also be in a sling for several weeks. Don’t think you can get away with sneaking out of it, either. It’s bad enough when I have to monitor your father for those sorts of impatient, self-destructive tendencies. I’m going to trust you have more sense than that.” 

Dad’s slightly miffed, “Hey!” went ignored. 

Henry wasn’t happy about having to stay in a sling for so long, but at least Papa hadn’t said he was barred from using his hand at all. He’ll still be able to draw, hopefully. The pause Papa had taken in his small speech, though, had Henry concerned. “What’s the bad news?” 

Papa’s mouth thinned. He reached for the bullet rolling between Henry’s fingers but stopped halfway, resting his hand on Henry’s leg instead. “We won’t be able to tell yet, one way or another, but the possibility remains that you’re going to have nerve damage. You might not have full mobility in the shoulder, and perhaps there will be a slight loss in feeling. Or-”

Henry groaned, flopping back on the bed, careful not to land directly in the injury in question. “It’s going to hurt forever, isn’t it?” 

“That’s possible, I won’t lie to you. You were not going to walk away from this without a scratch.” 

“Consequences,” Henry echoed, thinking about the ride in the truck. He hadn’t remembered much from the time between getting shot and waking up on the boat, but he did recall that. 

Papa sighed, leaned forward to fiddle with Henry’s hair a little, a hiss escaping between his teeth when the action exposed the side of Henry’s face. “Abi told me about how you got this. After I finished with your shoulder, I checked your ribs. None were fractured, just bruised.” 

“I figured,” Henry said, still looking up at the ceiling. “Guy wasn’t that strong.” Since they were discussing his messed up face anyway, Henry lolled his head to the side to steal a glance at his Dad, trying to suss out from his expression if Papa had been told yet. His face was impressively neutral. 

“How did you end up fracturing your nose, by the way? Neither Abi nor Luca knew.” When Henry looked back at Papa, it was painfully clear he already knew the answer to his question. Considering that Dad was alive and unmaimed, it didn’t seem like the conversation went as poorly as his father had predicted. 

“Collided with a hard surface,” Henry replied, holding back the urge to laugh. That would still hurt, he was fairly sure. 

Papa nodded, sagely. “Ah, yes, that makes sense. I thought as much. You know, I’ve always told your father that-”

“If you’re about to say that I’m  _ hard-headed,  _ I’m going to jump off the side of this boat and take my chances with the sharks,” Dad snapped, glaring at the both of them. He seemed even more irritated when his eyes glanced back and forth between their mouths, at what must have been matching smirks if the reluctantly fond look he now sported was anything to go by. 

“Take the mongrel with you, if you wouldn’t mind. I don’t know how she manages to shed all over the place when I barely see her do anything other than sleep.” 

Dad rolled his eyes, not rising to the bait. Papa knew as well as any of them that Cephy was a purebred. They’d rescued her shortly after settling in Italy. Well, rescued was probably not the correct term for it, as that would imply they got her from a shelter or picked her off the side of the road. “Stolen” was probably more accurate. “Stolen after killing her previous owner and burning the illegal puppy mill he was running to the ground” even more so. 

“That’s not true,” Dad said instead. “Sometimes she chases the duck.”

Henry winced, knowing he’d promised Luca that Cephy would leave Paris alone. “She hasn’t tried to bite her or anything, has she?” 

“No, no,” Dad assured. “We’ve never had another animal around before, so I just think she got a little overexcited about having a new friend. They’ve already settled down into a truce, I think.” 

Papa looked to Dad briefly before grinning. “No harm, no fowl.” 

Henry refused to acknowledge the pun—it would only encourage him—although Dad let out a long-suffering groan and let his head fall to the side until he rested against Papa’s shoulder. 

“Was there anything else?” Henry asked after a moment, so he’d stop having to look at the dumb, love-sick smiles his fathers were exchanging. 

“About your recovery? A few things. Until you’re fully healed, you should avoid using the arm as much as possible. Absolutely no lifting of any kind,” Papa explained, wrapping an arm around Dad’s middle. “I’ll begin tapering you off the pain medications over the next few days. If you’re sore or hurting more than usual, an ice pack can be applied. Would you like one now?” 

“No,” Henry responded automatically, although his shoulder  _ had _ started to hurt a little. “And does not using my arm mean I can’t use my hand either?” 

“You can for small things. No large movements or holding heavy objects. The goal isn’t to restrict you from things you might want to do as punishment, Henry. We want to give your body the absolute best chance it can have at healing. Rushing into certain activities before you’re ready will only hurt you further and cause you pain and complications down the road.” 

Picking at a loose thread in the blanket covering him, Henry mumbled under his breath, “I know that.” 

“Do you?”  

That tone from Dad caught Henry off guard, and he struggled on his own to sit up and see both of his fathers staring at him intently. “Yes?”

“I’d say you should promise us you’ll actually listen,” Dad said with a sigh from where he was resting against Papa, “but I’m not sure how much your word is worth right now.”

“I  _ said _ I was  _ sorry.” _

Papa leaned forward, took Henry’s left hand in both of his. “We know,” he said, shooting a glare at Dad to keep him quiet when he snorted. “Your hard work and sacrifices have not gone unappreciated, Henry. You did what—what I… you protected those that depended on you, which is all I could have ever asked of my son.” 

At Papa’s choked up words, Henry’s eyes widened. Was his father about to  _ cry?  _ Henry inched down the bed, suddenly needing to be closer. Sensing what Henry was trying to do, Papa pulled him across the bed to more snuggly sit between his parents, and Henry found himself wrapped in two smothering embraces. 

“But you took risks,” Dad continued, when Papa did not. “Unnecessary risks. It was an emergency situation, one where it was crucial you listen to  _ us _ , and you didn’t do that. Our ability to protect you and keep you safe relies on being able to trust you to follow our rules and obey us when survival is on the line.” 

Henry rested his forehead against Papa’s sweater, which was warm and soft, and was careful to keep from bumping his nose. He sighed heavily as he asked, “So how much trouble am I in?”

“You’re not,” Dad answered, spreading his hands in a half-shrug. At Henry’s skeptical look, he continued, “As I was  _ going  _ to say, while a lot of what went down, especially in the beginning, disappointed us, Hannibal is right. We  _ are  _ appreciative and thankful for a hell of a lot more.” Dad reached forward then, gently pulling Henry from one father to another. Papa had one hand on him like he was seriously considering engaging in a bout of tug-of-war, with Henry as the poor rope. 

“I think in this instance—just this once—it all evens out.” Dad’s chin was on top of Henry’s head as he spoke, and Henry could feel his father’s deep, even breaths, hear his steady heartbeat. 

It sounded like everything was fine, but Henry had to be sure. “So I’m not grounded?” 

“Technically no.” 

Oh, right. The shoulder. While the restrictions in place for his recovery weren’t a deliberate punishment, it effectively served as one anyway. Henry had the distinct impression this was like his fathers handing in a judgement for time served at his sentencing hearing. He may be guilty, but he’s suffered enough for his crimes. 

Although that reminded him… “Papa, how’s your side?” 

His father smiled and shifted on the bed, moving away from Dad slightly. He reached down and rucked up the hem of his sweater, exposing the bandages on his side. They looked fresh. “I’ve suffered far worse, don’t worry, Henry.”

That wasn’t exactly what he’d wanted to hear, though. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Under our dear Abigail’s tender care, how could I not be?” 

Dad snorted. “She’s relentless. After the worst of it was over with you, she wouldn’t let him do  _ anything,  _ took over most of your aftercare. Even stared Hannibal down into taking his own meds.” 

Papa made an indignant noise, either at the memory or Dad’s phrasing. “By then, it hardly hurt at all,” Papa muttered, rolling his eyes and letting the sweater fall from his hand. “Far more important we saved those medications for Henry.”

Based on what Henry remembered, there was literally more medicine stored on this boat than could be found in all the small, local pharmacies near their home combined. It really was a miniature clinic. 

Both Henry and his Dad raised brows at Papa, who sniffed and turned away from them to cross his legs over the side of the bed, speaking over his shoulder. “There is always the chance of infection or complications. I was merely being cautious.”

“And?” Dad prompted. 

“And I worried over whether one of those complications might arise while I wasn’t in full possession of my faculties.”

Leaning closer—and at this point, Dad might as well be laying down on the bed  _ with  _ Henry, since he was practically horizontal anyway—Dad rubbed the least injured part of his face against Papa’s shoulder. “Even if something had happened, our girl could have handled it. She’s as brilliant as you are.” 

It was a cheap tactic, but Henry saw his Papa preen a little at the praise before finally nodding in agreement. “I suppose. All the same, I’m glad that your recovery so far is going well, Henry.” Papa adjusted where he sat to press more into Dad’s body. They both looked tired. “But honestly, I’m all right, darling. A little sore and bruised, we all are, but we’ll be fine. Don’t worry about us.”

“Yeah,” Dad said, reaching out to rub a comforting hand over Henry’s good shoulder. “Focus on  _ you _ getting better right now, okay?” 

Henry nodded and didn’t protest when Papa rose from the bed to move him back into position to lay down. His head  _ was _ feeling a little fuzzy still. Papa was saying something about his body requiring more rest for the healing process, and the sleepiness that overcame him upon his head hitting the pillow made it hard to argue with that. 

Still, something nagged at the back of his mind. He was going to live. His whole family was going to live. They’d escaped with only a few bruises and battered bones between them, which to Henry definitely felt like a win. And he wasn’t grounded or had a punishment looming over his head. Henry should be happy about all that, right? Everything worked out about as well as he could’ve hoped. So why did he feel so apprehensive? 

He thought back on his parents’ words, everything they’ve spoken about since he woke, and two things from his Dad suddenly stood out in his mind like flashing, buzzing neon signs.  _ Trust _ and  _ disappointed.  _ Now that he wasn’t full of equal parts adrenaline, fear, and excitement over his first kills, it was a lot more difficult to set aside the squirming, uncomfortable feeling curling in his gut. At least it was less confusing, now that he’d taken the time to examine where it came from and what set it off. No less irritating, though. 

But the part where he had to be brave and fight against his instincts was over. It was done, and right now he was just an injured boy on a bed, wanting his parents approval. 

“Was I… was I okay?” Henry asked tentatively, fully aware his question was way too vague. Dad hadn’t moved from his spot on the bed, but Papa had begun to do something with the machine next to where Henry lay. He could see the line monitoring his heartbeat—it was silent—and watched it speed up as he spoke. 

“What do you mean?” Papa turned to look at him curiously. 

How did Henry explain?  _ I know everything I did pissed one or both of you off, but you were still proud, weren’t you? All those nights, the hundreds of hours in the basement didn’t suddenly feel like a waste of time, did they? Are you ever going to trust me enough to share this with me again, or have I blown it entirely? _

Henry bit his lip, tried not to fidget with his blanket as he thought of how to phrase it. “Was I good… at… did I  _ do _ okay?” 

His fathers exchanged confused looks before Papa seemed to catch onto what Henry was trying to say. He reached down, touched the side of Henry’s face that wasn’t one giant bruise carefully. “You were magnificent, sweet boy. And now, we need you to heal. It would be a pity if you had to sit out the next hunt because you were not yet recovered.” 

_ The next hunt?  _ Henry was still processing the obnoxious warmth he felt at Papa’s succinct praise before really hearing the rest of what was said. He nearly sat up straight in shock, but Papa’s hand on his face kept him down—and likely prevented him from hurting himself in the attempt. 

“You’re going to let me…  _ really _ ?” 

Dad held up a finger to get Henry’s attention. “It’s contingent on-”

“I’ll do it, I promise! I’ll do  _ anything!” _

“How about not interrupting me?” Dad asked, brow raised. 

Henry winced, sank more into his pillow and said nothing further. The bed was slightly raised—to keep his shoulder elevated, he assumed—so even shrinking in on himself, he could see both fathers clearly. “Sorry.” 

Dad waved the apology away, not really bothered if the smirk on his face was any indication.  _ “Anyway,  _ it’s contingent on a few things.” He paused, waiting for another interjection, but Henry stayed silent. “You have to follow Hannibal’s advice for your recovery  _ to the letter.  _ We’ll all be watching you to make sure you’re adhering to the rules. If you screw up your shoulder forever because you pushed yourself, no one is going to be happy. Also, earning our trust is going to take time. We’re going to expect you to be patient and on your best behavior while we get settled in at the new place. It could be months before we even  _ consider _ going hunting again, you understand?” 

Henry nodded fervently, willing to agree to just about anything. He’s going to get to go on a  _ real _ hunt. Would his fathers let him pick the quarry too? He knew Dad had his preferences when it came to who they went after, although in certain circumstances—the real estate agent, for example—he could be more flexible. Henry wondered where they’d do it, if maybe another chase through nature could be in the cards. If it hadn’t been his family at risk, that could have been fun. More fun, anyway. 

His fathers must have realized Henry was getting lost in his own thoughts, because Dad suddenly laughed and patted his leg before standing stiffly from the bed, hands going to rub at his back. “You’ll have lots of time to think up any and everything you’ll want to do. There’s no rush. Try to think small, hm? Like, no wildfires or international manhunts.” Rounding the bed, Dad gave Papa a brief, tired kiss. “I’m going to go get some real sleep. Abi still taking care of navigation?”

“She is. Unless something changes that requires your attention, I’ll wake you when it’s time for dinner.” 

Dad sighed his thanks and trudged out of the room after one last kiss to Henry and Papa both. Henry heard the door close with a heavy thud. 

“How much of a nightmare patient has Dad been  _ this  _ time?” Henry asked with a conspiratorial smile. He watched as Papa tried, and failed, not to reciprocate. 

“No worse than usual, for the most part.”

“The most part?” At Papa’s glance toward the chair in the corner of the room, Henry muttered, “Oh,” under his breath.

“I suspect he’ll be sleeping more soundly from now on. I’d almost got to the point where I considered drugging his food, but that shouldn’t be necessary now.” 

“He probably would have slept walked his way over here, even if you had,” Henry said, watching his father go through the motions of switching out his IV bag. The IV was fed into his right arm, so he couldn’t really feel it there. All the same, he tried not to look at the swath of tape covering the needle. 

“You’re probably right,” Papa conceded after a moment, eyes fond. “You gave both of us a terrible scare. I joined him here to watch over you on more than one occasion, despite Doctor Abigail’s objections.” 

Papa picked something out of the fold in the blanket covering Henry and placed it on top of the machine next to the IV stand. It was the bullet. 

“After your surgery, Will hated the very sight of it. Were he capable of crushing lead with his bare fist, I think he would have done so. Multiple times, he asked me to let him toss it into the ocean. I refused, since I believed you’d want to see it for yourself. And also that it should be you that decides what’s to be done with it. Would you like to keep it?” 

Henry sat himself up just a little, to help clear some of the drowsiness away, if only for a minute. It seemed a silly memento to keep, the remnants from the first time he was shot.  _ First time.  _ Henry was certain he’d never like to repeat the experience, but with the lives his family led… it just wasn’t a reasonable or practical assumption to make that it would never happen again. And  _ this _ he earned not hunting or killing for pleasure but while protecting his family. That made it special, in Henry’s mind. 

“I think so,” he said. He stared at the lump of metal in question. “I wish, I’unno, that I could… make something out of it?” It felt important to transform it, suddenly, beyond what the bones of his body had already accomplished. 

Papa picked it up, considering. “It could easily be made into a necklace,” he offered.

Henry shook his head. He didn’t want pointless  _ jewelry.  _ “It needs to be something new, something I can keep with me. A reminder.” 

“A reminder of what?”

_ To be brave but not stupid,  _ Henry thought.  _ To always be a clever monster.  _

“To not get cocky,” was Henry’s actual answer. 

The way Papa’s eyes crinkled in that half-smile of his convinced Henry he’d been right. Papa had overheard much more of that conversation between Dad and Henry back at the house than he let on, which wasn’t surprising at all. That felt like so long ago now. 

“I’m sure we can think of something suitable, after you’ve had some rest.” Papa placed the chunk of lead into Henry’s open right palm and helped ease Henry back into laying down. His father pressed a kiss and whispered words of love and pride into Henry’s hair, then tugged the curtain closed again and silently left the room. 

Henry fell asleep quickly once he was enveloped in darkness, fingers clenched around the bullet in his hand. To his surprise come morning, he wasn’t plagued by nightmares. He dreamt of hazy skies above an endless field of trees, roots so soaked with blood, their trunks leaked red sap, with knots in their bark that twisted to resemble open mouths, wordlessly screaming for eternity. 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Henry’s got strange ideas about what a good dream is supposed to entail. 
> 
> And well… we’ve reached the end, ladies, gentlemen, and other esteemed members of my readership. I cannot even begin to tell you what all the positive responses and encouragement has meant to me these past months. As I mentioned when I posted Chapter 1, this is my first fic ever. The fact it was received so well, that _so many_ people like - love! - my deranged little killer has blown me away time and time again. 
> 
> Just… thanks, you guys. From the bottom of my withered, black little heart, thank you so much.
> 
> This is not the last y’all have seen of Henry. I have an epilogue of sorts that I’ll be working on soon, covering the next few days after Henry wakes up on the boat. It’ll be a much more sedate story, delving into his recovery and where the family goes from here. In addition to that, there are also two more adventures I have in mind for Henry in the future.
> 
> After that, I don’t know! At some point, I might try my hand at writing the beginning of Will and Hannibal’s relationship, which I know people are curious about. 
> 
> We’ll see what the future holds!
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Edit:** Check out the amazing fanart this fic has received!   
> [The Apple Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree](http://lesbrambora.tumblr.com/post/173999791179/the-apple-doesnt-fall-far-away-from-the-tree) by **lesbrambora**  
> [The Graham-Lecter boys](https://nightabyssart.tumblr.com/post/175567333173/two-of-the-best-drawings-i-did-while-reading) by **nightabyssart**
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


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